The Perfect Pair
by AmyI
Summary: Meg used to believe in happily-ever-afters, but when a family tragedy strikes she's left to pick up the pieces on her own. It takes a handsome stranger, her best friend, and her own ingenuity to restore her belief in her dreams. Modern Cinderella.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Meg slid the box into a bag and handed it to the woman on the other side of the counter. "I hope you like these, Mrs. Campbell," she said, smiling. "If not, you know our return policy."

Mrs. Campbell beamed back at her. "I've been buying shoes here since your grandmother owned the shop, and I've never had to return a pair," she replied before turning to leave. "I don't expect that will change anytime soon."

Laughing, Meg closed the register and watched as the older woman paused in the front of the store to talk to Meg's mother, who'd been working on a new window display. Alice gave the woman a one-armed hug before she turned around the corner.

Mrs. Campbell was right, Meg thought as she flipped through a catalogue. For some reason, shoes were in her blood – at least, it was in her mother's, and her grandmother's before that. Just because it hadn't shown up in the youngest of the clan didn't mean it wouldn't eventually.

Alice wandered over and stood next to her, glancing at the brochures on the counter. "See anything good in there?" she asked casually.

Meg ran her eyes over the pictures until one caught her attention. "I think Mrs. Campbell's granddaughter would like these," she said slowly, pushing the glossy pages closer to her mother. "In green, to match the dress she'll buy at Charley's grand opening next week."

Her mother stared at it and nodded thoughtfully. "What makes you think she'll buy a green dress?"

Meg tilted her head. "Because Charley's the kind of person that'll want to match the dress to the owner's eyes."

Alice opened her mouth as though to argue, but then laughed instead. "I think you might be right. Why don't you order them and see for yourself? If she doesn't want them, I'm sure someone else will – they're quite lovely. Where _is_ Charley, anyway? I haven't seen him in at least twenty minutes."

Meg would have refuted that statement, but it was largely true. "The last time I saw him he was arguing with the delivery guy about the state his boxes arrived in," she said, shaking her head. "He seemed to think that since he paid the same amount of money as it would take to ship the crown jewels here from England, his dress boxes should arrive intact and without water marks."

Alice looked properly horrified. "I hope he gets his money back."

"He will," Meg told her confidently. "Charley has a way of getting what he wants. How else would he convince his father to let him open a dress shop in one of the city's more fashionable malls?"

"By promising him that the family name won't be anywhere near it." Charley stood in the doorway and sighed theatrically. "I had to sign an contract in blood before he'd agree to back me financially."

Meg grinned at him. Charley had been her best friend since the second grade, and she couldn't get over the fact that he was opening a store next to hers. "Was anything damaged?"

Charley scowled. "No, and those stupid UPS people had better be glad. I think I might have been tempted to say something rude."

Alice shook her head. "You should never have to say something rude to get your point across," she chided gently. "You just have to cultivate an expression that says what you want to say without having to open your mouth."

Charley pondered this for a few seconds. "Like this?" He pulled a face so comical that Meg started to laugh.

"That look tells me that you've eaten a bad salami sandwich for lunch and are now regretting it," she told him. "Try again."

Charley's mouth immediately morphed into a glower. "Is this better, ma'am?" he growled. "It's supposed to say, 'I'm getting fed up with the way you've been treating me. I am, after all, a lawyer's son. Jacob Grimm might very well sue your pants off for being rude to me.'"

Alice gave the shoe catalogue back to her daughter. "Dear Jacob. How's he been since he retired?"

Scowl disappearing, Charley reached over the counter and grabbed the stapler, idly shooting staples into the air. "Fine, as long as I'm not talking to him about selling ball gowns. He seems to think it's not a very manly way to earn a living."

"I don't care what he says," Meg told him for what felt like the twelfth time that day. "If you want to sell dresses, then you should."

"Gowns, Meg, gowns. Not dresses." Charley looked pained. "There's a huge difference."

"Sorry."

Charley leaned over and planted a wet, noisy kiss on Meg's cheek. "I'm counting on you two to make my first purchase," he said. Meg was pretty sure he was only half joking.

"But we don't know what you have," she objected. "What if you don't have my size?"

Charley looked mildly offended. "Are you questioning my ability to size up a customer?" he asked. "I'll have you know that I can tell a woman's dress size at fifty paces."

"So what's mine?" Meg crossed her arms and waited.

He regarded her for a moment, then winked at Alice. "I always thought it was impolite to talk about a lady's measurements in public," he said. "And especially within her hearing. But since she asked, here's what it is." He whispered something in Alice's ear, and she laughed.

"You're right, of course."

Meg frowned at them. "And?"

"Now she doesn't trust her own mother." Charley smirked at her. "I think I'd better be going. Are we still on for dinner tomorrow?" he asked as he turned to walk out of the shop.

Meg smiled in spite of herself. "Of course. Have I ever missed one of our Wednesday dinners?"

"Not that I can remember." Charley tossed the stapler to her and ran out before she could throw it back at him.

Alice remained silent until he'd disappeared from view. "Are you ready for the big move?" she asked lightly. "Your dad called while you were at lunch and said the apartment was just about ready."

Meg, who'd started to straighten up the shelves, smiled in anticipation. Her parents had been very supportive when she'd suggested six months ago that it might be time to move out of the house – after all, she reminded them, she _was_ nearly twenty five and was quite responsible. After several weeks of fruitless searching through Brothers, Michigan, for something that was both affordable and safe, she had come to a sad conclusion – the house that her parents had purchased thirty years ago was now worth an awful lot of money, and there was no way she could afford something in the increasingly affluent area surrounding the mall.

It had been Arthur who'd come up with a solution in the end, and her father had offered to transform the third floor of the house into an apartment for her. It was a good deal, Meg decided. She could be independent, have a little more freedom, and be close enough to the shop – and her parents -- should the need arise.

Meg had just opened her mouth to respond when Alice walked past her. "Oh, here comes Margaret Fisher. I'm sure she's here for those sandals I ordered for her last week."

The grin that had been tugging at Meg's mouth erupted, and she hummed to herself as she went back to work.

*** *** ***

Ten minutes before the mall closed Alice walked out of the shop to stare critically at her handiwork. "Come see the new display," she called to her daughter.

Duster in hand, Meg made her way to her mother and stood silently next to her.

"What do you think?"

Meg glanced up at the sign hanging over the door. The Glass Slipper glittered faintly in the mall's overhead lights, making the letters look like they'd been painted with fairy dust. If she didn't know any better, Meg would have sworn that her grandmother had been a fairy godmother. Who else would come up with a name like that for a shop that sold fancy shoes?

"Well?" Alice's voice was tinged with amusement.

Meg's eyes dropped immediately to the window, and for a second she didn't know what to say. "Did you come up with this on your own?" she finally asked.

Alice smiled with satisfaction. "I did. What do you think of the slippers?"

I should have seen that coming, Meg thought. The woman produces the best window display this mall's seen in years, and all she cares about is the shoes. "They're lovely," she said without really looking at them.

"Meg. Look at them. What do you think?"

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and looked dutifully at the pair directly in the middle of the display. "Are those supposed to be glass slippers?" she asked, moving so close that she could touch the window with the tip of her nose. Now she knew why Alice had referred to them as 'slippers', a name reserved for only the most beautiful footwear the shop sold. "Where in the world did you ever find them? They're amazing."

Alice laughed quietly. "I'd tell you it was a trade secret, but you know almost as much as I do now. Those dance slippers are the reason we own this shop. My mother saw a pair of shoes that looked very similar to these shortly before she got married, but when she went inside the store to buy them for her wedding the saleslady took one look at her and refused to let her try them on because she didn't look rich enough to be able to afford them. Mother was dreadfully humiliated, and when she got home that afternoon she told her fiancée what had happened."

"And then she opened her own shoe store and eventually put that nasty woman out of business," Meg concluded. She'd heard this story a few times as a child.

Meg caught the smug expression as it flitted across her mother's face. "Yes, she did, but there's a part of the story that I haven't told you. Before she opened her own shop, and shortly after I was born, your grandfather went to the other woman's store and stood in front of it for hours. No one could see what he was doing, but a few weeks later he came home with a box. Inside was a pair of shoes so delicate and elegant that his wife thought she'd been transported into a fairy tale. You see, he'd spent all his time in front of that store sketching the shoes, which had never been sold, and then he had them recreated – only better. That's really what convinced her to open the business."

Meg traced the outline of the shoe on the glass. "This really isn't the same pair, is it?" When there was no response she turned her head to stare at Alice. "Is it?"

Alice just smiled, hugged her only child, and leaned her chin against Meg's forehead. "It is. And now they're yours. Your grandmother wore them on her tenth wedding anniversary. I only wore them once, on the day I married your father. I expect you'll do something equally wonderful with them."

Meg wasn't quite sure what to say, so she just hugged her mother back. "Thank you," she whispered.

Alice tilted her head down so she could look Meg in the eye. "You'll do fine," she said, her eyes shining with happiness. "I'm so – "

And then Meg's life shattered. Without warning, Alice's body jerked, stiffened, and the next thing Meg knew, her mother had slipped from her arms, her head lolling to the side as she lay crumpled to the floor.

Charley dashed into the hallway when he heard Meg's frantic cry for help. He took in her blood-soaked hands clutching Alice's arms, called the paramedics, and held her as she cried.

*** *** ***

The next few weeks passed in a blur of hospitals, police officers, funeral homes, and then gravesites. Meg didn't even try to make sense of what had happened; all she knew was that her mother was dead and no one knew why. "Did she have any enemies?" the kind police woman asked, and when Meg couldn't think of a single person, the officer just sighed and shook her head.

"And you're sure you didn't see anyone suspicious before the shooting?"

The only thing Meg could remember was the way the feathers from her duster had slowly turned bright red from all the blood on the floor. "I didn't see anyone at all," she said dully. "The mall was about to close, and almost everyone had already gone home."

The police woman wrote something in her book that Meg was sure said something like, "deceased's daughter needs psychiatric treatment". "We'll keep you informed," she said gently, and Meg was left to deal with Arthur. Fifteen years Alice's senior, her father went from shock to denial to depression so fast his hair turned stark white almost overnight, and Meg didn't know what to do with him. It didn't help that he locked himself in the house for days, and she slept in her old room to keep an anxious eye on him.

She closed The Glass Slipper for two weeks, and when she reopened the doors the steady stream of people coming in to murmur their condolences nearly did her in.

Charley found her sobbing into a sodden handkerchief when he came by to bring her lunch that first dreadful day back. "I know they're mourning, too," she wept, "but I just can't take it. Maybe I should close the shop down for another week."

He gave her an only slightly-used tissue and sank down on the ground next to her, his long legs stretching out halfway across the floor. "You know you don't want to do that," he stated in a matter-of-fact sort of voice, and handed her a bottle of water. "This place is your mom's legacy, and you know it. Drink up," he ordered calmly. "You need to replace some of those fluids dripping down your face. Otherwise your skin will get all dried out, and all that'll accomplish is to make you red and flaky."

Meg hiccoughed one more time and drank half the bottle at once. "Thanks," she said tiredly. "I needed a dose of reality. It's not going to do me any good to cry. And I'm glad mom's customers feel comfortable talking to me about her."

"They all loved her, and they love you for being strong enough to keep this place going," Charley told her kindly. "Come on, I made this especially for you."

She opened the bag to find a foot-long sandwich in a Subway wrapper. "You didn't make this at all," she sniffed, and blew her nose on the napkin inside the bag.

"I was speaking metaphorically," he informed her, trying to look haughty and failing completely. "Isn't it enough that I know what you like on a sandwich and can communicate that to the person holding the bread knife? Figuratively, I'm a sandwich master."

Meg gave a shaky laugh and started eating. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. "Thanks."

"Does the owner know you're sitting on the floor, eating a –what is that, anyway? Mother, what is that?"

Meg's head snapped up at the petulant voice, and she found herself staring at a tall, overly blonde girl wearing entirely too much eye makeup. "I'm sorry," she said politely, and scrambled to her feet. "May I help you with something?"

"You can find us the manager of this quaint little shop." Meg wasn't sure where the voice was coming from, but it sounded like there was a six-year-old in the room. When she glanced back at Charley he tilted his head toward the doorway.

Meg did a double take when she saw the woman standing there. Her first thought was that she couldn't imagine how she hadn't noticed her before. After all, she was so tall that she would easily tower over Charley, and he was almost six feet.

And she had a mustache. A faint one, but a mustache nonetheless.

"Could you get me the manager, please?"

This time Meg did a triple take. There was no way a woman that large could emit a sound that squeaky. Charley nudged her in the back and Meg wiped her hand on her skirt before holding it out. "I'm Meg Bailey," she said as politely as she could. "This shop belonged to my mother." She was rather proud of how steady her voice was when she said that.

The woman looked her up and down dismissively. "I see," was all she said. "Come, Brittany. We'll have to look elsewhere." She turned abruptly and stalked out, the girl hard on her heels. It was only when she moved away that Meg noticed another, shorter girl standing behind the one that she could only assume was Brittany. The girl touched a sandal with one finger, gave Meg an apologetic look, and scurried out when the squeaky voice called, "Whitney! Come!"

Meg and Charley stared out of the window for a long time. "Who was that?" Meg asked finally.

Charley just shrugged and took a bite of her sandwich. "Beats me," he said. "Maybe she likes to talk to the manager before she buys a pair of shoes, in case they're hiding the good stuff in the back."

"Maybe," she said slowly. For some reason, the two taller women gave her the creeps.

*** *** ***

When she got home that evening Arthur was waiting for her. "Hi, Dad," Meg called into the kitchen as she hung her jacket on its hook. She wasn't sure what had drawn him out of his room, but whatever it was, she was grateful for it. "What did you do today?"

Arthur lifted his head slowly as his daughter entered the room. "I spoke with the lawyer today about the shop," he said, his eyes not meeting hers. "I'm thinking of selling it."

Meg could feel the blood draining from her face, and she dropped into the chair next to him. "You can't do that," she whispered. "That store was Mom's pride and joy."

He rested his head in his hands. "That's why I'm considering a sale. I can't face the idea of owning that place when that's where she . . . where she . . . "

Meg rubbed his back while she tried to get her brain to work again. These days, she wasn't taking drastic news all that well. "It's okay, Dad," she whispered. "It'll be okay. I'll take over at the shop; you won't even have to go near it until you're ready. Just don't do anything for a while, okay?"

Arthur shook his head. "I actually have an interested buyer," he told her. "They've wanted to own a shoe store for a few years, and recently came into some money."

"Since when is it on the market?" Meg knew she was tired and overwhelmed, but how could she have missed something like this?

Her father turned his head toward the wall. "Without your mother, that place is just a bunch of impressive footwear. Neither of us can take her place, and I don't want to try. It's not like we need the money; my retirement is enough to keep us comfortable."

"No, no, don't do it! That place is who I am, regardless of who's sitting behind the counter." Meg's panic level was increasing with every word that came out of her father's mouth.

Arthur raised his tired eyes to hers. "Does it mean that much to you?" he asked.

"How could it not?" Fear made the words come out sharper than she'd intended, and Arthur winced.

"I'll make sure you have a job there, if you want." His voice was stiff. "I can put it into the contract that you have a job there as long as you wish for it. No matter what. And I'll only sell if they agree to leave the window display alone."

Meg's heart sank. "So it's a done deal, then," she said, unconsciously mimicking his dull tone.

When he didn't reply, she gathered her things and went up the stairs to sleep in her new apartment for the first time.

*** *** ***

Two weeks later Meg met her new boss. She was only mildly surprised to see Squeaky, the tall woman with the six-year-old voice, followed by the two girls that had come with her the last time she'd entered the store.

The woman gazed at the shoes on the shelves with barely disguised satisfaction. "My name is Mamie Steppe," she announced when she finally turned to address Meg. "And these are my daughters, Brittany – "she indicated the taller, faker girl – "and this is Whitney." The other daughter gave Meg a half-hearted wave. "The first order of business is to take an inventory and see what needs to be changed. Come, girls."

Meg could only take a deep breath to keep from bursting into tears.

If this were a fairy tale she'd be sure of a happy ending, but since she'd just met the Steppe sisters and their evil mother, that hardly seemed likely.

What were the words to that Disney song? Oh, right. A dream is a wish your heart makes.

Of course, it would help if she could think of a wish that didn't involve turning the clock back.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"Meg Bailey!"

Meg sighed and leaned her head against the box she was unpacking. It had been a year since the first time Mamie Steppe had set foot in The Glass Slipper, and every day, as she got ready for work, she asked herself why she didn't just find another job with a boss that understood the meaning of the word 'benevolence'.

"Meg Bailey! Come here at once!"

"Would it be so hard for her to just call me by my first name?" she muttered under her breath, before pulling the door open to find Mamie.

She was standing in front of the store, watching as a man tried to hang the new sign over the front door. "You called me?" Meg asked, trying to be polite. It wouldn't be a very good idea to get in trouble before the mall had even opened.

Mamie didn't spare her a glance. The worker, struggling to handle hammer, nails, and sign without dropping anything, was several feet above them on a ladder, and Mamie seemed to be fixated on his backside. He was, Meg noted, unfortunately showing an alarming amount of naked bottom. Perhaps he was a plumber on the side. "I need the key to the display. Get it for me."

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Meg tucked her hands into her pockets and tried not to look up. It was a bit like rubbernecking, she thought. You didn't really want to see what was happening, but you were powerless to resist. "The key's safely at home, where it always is," she reminded Mamie patiently.

Mamie's eyes narrowed, and Meg took a half step backward. "Why do you refuse to bring it here? I own this shop. I own that window. Bring me the key tomorrow or I'll fire you."

Meg wasn't sure how to respond to this. If she simply stated the obvious, that while Mamie did own the shop, she couldn't touch the window display, and that Meg was un-fireable, she'd most likely get a load of extra work. On the other hand, it would be a pleasant change to see Mamie flustered and irritated by something she couldn't control. "Actually, Mamie, that's not – "

"There you are, Meg!" Charley's voice echoed in the empty corridor. His expression was slightly disapproving, and Meg was sure that he'd heard their conversation – and had a good idea what she was about to say.

"Hi, Charley."

Mamie glanced at him and sniffed. "Mr. Grimm. You haven't been sending us as many customers lately. I know for a fact that the gown business isn't suffering; people come out of your shop all the time with dress bags over their shoulders."

Charley merely shrugged and watched as the man managed to get one side of the sign anchored to the wall with his elbow. "People buy their shoes where they please, regardless of my suggestions. I'm sure they'll see the light now that the store has a new name. 'Steppe In' sounds so inviting."

This was evidently enough to satisfy Mamie because she turned around and walked back into the shop. "Come, Meg Bailey," she called over her shoulder. "Those deliveries aren't going to unpack themselves."

Meg's shoulders slumped, and Charley slung his arm around her. "Has she said anything about the old sign being stuck so tight that it won't come down?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Not yet. I don't know why she won't just chisel it away. Of course, she probably thinks I've put a hex on it or something. But she's been asking about the key to the display again."

Charley shot her a strange look. "Meg, she asks you about that blasted key every other day. I must say, it was a stroke of genius when you installed that door before the sales agreement was signed. Now she can't get in without it looking like someone vandalized the place."

"I think that's why she keeps trying to get the key from me." Meg sighed and wrapped her arms around her stomach. "Sometimes I wish . . . " She let her voice trail off, and Charley squeezed her a little tighter.

"Sometimes you wish what? That your mother hadn't died in a freak shooting? That you could run away to Aruba and never come back? If you do that I might just follow you, sling you over my shoulder and make you work for me instead of Squeaky. You could sell a pair of shoes to a woman without feet – and make her happy about it. I'd love to see what you could do with a gown."

Meg could feel herself blushing. "Stop it. And for your information, I don't know the first thing about dresses."

Charley gave her a look, and she laughed. "All right, gowns. I know a little bit. It helps that my best friend sells them. Thanks, by the way, for sending me those customers. I think I found what they were looking for."

The expression on Charley's face grew smug. "I made sure they knew to come when the shop was Steppe free, so there wouldn't be any uncomfortable questions. Has Mamie really put Brittany in charge of all the ordering?"

Meg nodded glumly. Before Charley could say anything a piercing voice came from the shop. "Meg Bailey! I thought I told you to come in here!"

She rolled her eyes and rested her head on Charley's arm for a second. "Come by my office before you leave tonight," he said as she moved away. "I have a surprise for you."

"Since when do you have an office?" Meg turned and walked backwards so she could see him.

Charley looked pained. "I have an office, Meg. Just because it's full of lace and satin doesn't mean it isn't an office."

Meg was laughing when she went through the door.

*** *** ***

It was five minutes before nine when Meg's last customer poked her head around the corner of the shop. "Is is safe to come in?" she asked in a loud whisper.

Meg glanced behind her uncertainly. Mamie usually took off well before closing time, but she hadn't heard the back door clunk shut yet. "I don't know, Carrie," she said doubtfully, looking back at the young woman in front of her. "It usually is, but . . . "

Not needing any more encouragement, Carrie slung her bags on the floor and sank into a chair. "I've been shopping all day," she moaned, kicking her shoes off. "I think you should consider selling shopping shoes. You know, ones that people can wear when they go on all-day mall binges that look fabulous but don't eat holes in your toes."

Meg smiled involuntarily. "Not everyone who gets married sees the wedding as an excuse to empty their bank accounts," she reminded her. "Most people dread the whole wedding thing for that very reason. Do you want to see your slippers?"

Carrie sat up at once, looking eager. "Bring 'em on."

Reaching underneath the window display, Meg produced a silver box and handed it over. Carrie ripped the top off and squealed. "Oh, they're perfect!" she cried, throwing her free arm around Meg's neck and squeezing so tight that Meg could hardly breathe. "How did you get the color right?"

Meg tried not to laugh. "They're to be worn with a wedding dress, silly. Did you really think I would order you green shoes? Besides, you picked these out yourself."

Carrie let go of her and slid them on her feet. "They feel divine," she sighed. "Grant will be so pleased."

"I hardly think your fiancée will be concerned about your footwear."

Carrie froze mid twirl at the sound of Brittany's cold voice. One foot hovered in the air so she could admire the way the slipper made her foot look tiny. Meg simply placed her head in her hands.

"What is this?" Brittany had never sounded so calm. It was reminiscent, Meg thought wearily, of last month's ice storm -- quiet and deadly.

"Carrie is buying a pair of shoes for her wedding," Meg said after a pause that probably lasted a few seconds too long.

"I didn't see the order for those anywhere, and I certainly didn't place it."

The room was quiet for a long moment. "I requested them a long time ago," Carrie finally blurted out, her eyes darting between Meg and Brittany. "Back before you started working here."

Brittany's eyes flashed. "I don't _work_ here," she said haughtily. "I procure things that people like you will want."

Meg was impressed in spite of herself. She hadn't thought Brittany had enough brain cells to know what 'procure' meant.

"It must have been a very long time ago," Brittany added when Carrie didn't say anything. "I've been here over a year."

"I did it." For a second Meg wasn't sure who'd spoken. Then a shadow appeared behind Brittany, and Meg almost fell over when she spotted Whitney.

Brittany whirled around and glared at her sister. "What? You? Since when have you known how to do anything useful?"

Shrinking back, Whitney looked like she wanted to make herself invisible. "I don't know," she whispered, staring down at the floor. The second Brittany turned around to smile ingratiatingly at Carrie she scurried into the back room.

Brittany looked down her long, thin nose at Meg. "I think I'll have to tell Mother." Then she flounced through the back door.

"I'm so sorry," Carrie whispered as she hastily gathered up her things. She thrust some money in Meg's hands and backed out of the store. "Maybe you should start sending your shoes to Charley's. I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

"I'm sure he wouldn't." Meg sighed as she closed and locked the heavy metal gates behind Carrie. The second the gate hit the ground there was a loud crash from the hallway. Before she'd lifted the gate high enough to scramble under to see what had happened Mamie had emerged from the back. Brittany was hard on her heels.

"What's going on out here?"

"I don't know," Meg gasped. The door was heavier than it looked. It was too bad that after five years of lifting it her muscles hadn't grown any.

Mamie made a disgusted noise and pulled it up with one hand, revealing the new sign lying in pieces on the floor. It looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it and shown no mercy. "Who did this?" Mamie kicked at the debris with one foot, sending pieces of wood skittering across the tile. "Meg Bailey! You were the only one out here! Explain yourself!"

"She doesn't need to explain anything." The hairs on Meg's arms stood up when she saw the look Brittany was giving her. "I've already caught her selling a pair of ballet slippers _that I didn't order_ to a bride." She said the last phrase like she was the President addressing the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Two pairs of cold eyes glared at her. "We're a shoe store," Meg said, knowing that any explanation she gave would be dismissed immediately. "I wasn't doing anything illegal."

"Where did you get them?" Mamie's voice was so cold that the hairs on the back of Meg's neck stuck up, too. At this rate, she thought, I'm going to resemble a porcupine.

"Whitney said she ordered them." Brittany glanced down at her fingernails and frowned slightly. "Mother, I'm going to have to get my nails redone tomorrow. That new girl the salon hired doesn't know what she's doing."

Mamie grabbed her daughter's hand. "You're right. I'll have a word with the manager before you go. As for you, Meg Bailey, you'll clean up this mess. I'll take the cost of its replacement out of your salary. When you're done with that you can dust the store from top to bottom. You didn't do a good enough job yesterday." Mamie swept through the store and into the back room, where Meg could hear her barking at Whitney. Then the rear door slapped shut, and Meg was left alone for the first time all day.

She'd just started gathering up the larger pieces of the sign when Charley appeared in front of her. "What happened here?" he asked, staring at Meg, still kneeling on the ground. "What's up with the new sign?"

"If anyone else asks me that today, I think I'll be sick." Meg got to her feet and threw the wood in the trash. "The sign fell down and Mamie's blaming me for it. And Brittany caught me giving a pair of ballet slippers to Carrie."

Charley gave a low whistle. "You've had a very busy day. Did she try to fire you again over the slippers?"

She jerked the broom around, scattering splintered wood across the hall before giving up and leaning on it. "She couldn't after Whitney confessed that she was the one that had ordered them."

Charley's eyebrows shot up, almost melding into his hairline. "Whitney? Whitney Steppe? I can't believe she actually said something out loud. I thought Squeaky'd taken her voice box out as a child."

"She talks," Meg said a little defensively. At Charley's incredulous look, she added, "Well, she whispers. That's practically the same thing. Even her sister heard her this evening."

The skeptical look was still on Charley's face. "Why'd she do it? After working together for a year, why did she pick today to open her mouth?"

"Now _that's_ the question of the day." Meg looked down the hall to the mall's atrium. "I don't know. Maybe she's finally had enough of her family. I would if I were her."

Charley shook his head like he was trying to clear it. "Are you ready for your surprise yet?" His grin told Meg that he'd been waiting for this moment all day.

She glanced back inside the shop. "Mamie told me to dust again . . . "

Charley made a rude noise. "A speck of dust wouldn't have the nerve to even think about settling down in there. Mamie's obviously off her rocker. Come on, Meg. Every now and then it's okay to ignore her commands."

Meg grinned slowly at him. "Let me at least put the broom away."

Three minutes later Meg walked through Charley's shop (which, with a massive lack of inspiration, he'd named Charley's) and paused amongst the finery. It was so calm in here, she thought. Like The Glass Slipper used to be. Nat King Cole played quietly in the background, and she swore she could smell cookie dough. She sniffed harder while she wandered back to Charley's office, trying to figure out where the cookie smell was coming from.

"Are you cooking something in here?" she asked, craning her neck around the dressmaker's dummies in search of an oven.

Charley rolled his eyes. "You know I don't have a kitchen in here," he told her. "Isn't that a fire hazard or something? I decided to start burning a candle. My customers feel like they're at home and are more comfortable."

"And more willing to try on dozens of dresses, like they would if they were playing dress-up in the spare bedroom at home."

"Exactly." Charley smirked in a very self-satisfied way. "No one's complained yet."

"Maybe you should make a deal with the lady who owns the Mrs. Fields shop in the food court," Meg suggested drily. "No one can resist one of those things."

Charley tapped his chin with his finger. "That's not a bad idea," he mused. "I'll talk to her in the morning. Now, come on. The surprise is out back."

Meg followed him down the hall. "Your bathroom isn't as messy as usual," she commented, and stuck her head in to admire the gleaning surfaces before they passed it.

Charley jangled his keys impatiently. "My dad's scheduled to come by in the next few days. I thought it'd be a good idea to clean it up a little."

By that Meg knew he meant 'get rid of all the bottles of hair goo and fancy soap'. She shook her head. "Eventually he's going to have to come to grips with the fact that you can embrace your masculinity and smell nice at the same time."

Charley just snorted. "You haven't talked to my dad in a while, have you."

Meg tilted her head and looked up at him. "I love you just the way you are," she told him affectionately. "Even if you are the only guy I know who has a bathroom this amazing hidden in the back of his store."

Charley smiled a little before he ruffled her hair and pulled her toward the back door. "You have a bathroom," he pointed out.

"Yeah, but it just has a toilet and a sink. Yours has a shower with two faucets, a dehumidifier, and a well-stocked linen closet. You have to admit, that's a little rare for most bachelor apartments, much less a shop in a mall."

Charley sniffed. "So I like to keep up appearances. You're just jealous." He flung open the door and stood back. "What do you think?"

After the lights of Charley's store it took a few seconds for Meg's eyes to adjust to the darkness outside. When they did, all she could see was a large, rather ugly car. "Where's the surprise?"

Charley pushed her through the door and into the snow. "It's right in front of you. Isn't it great?"

Meg stood still for a second, wondering if all the hair products had finally seeped into her best friend's brain. "You mean the car?" she asked cautiously.

Charley beamed at it affectionately. "Isn't it the best thing you've ever seen?"

Meg opened and closed her mouth several times but for the life of her she couldn't produce any sound.

"You're obviously overwhelmed." Charley patted her on the back in a soothing sort of way. "I had the same reaction the first time I saw her. You'll get used to the thrill after a bit."

"It's orange," Meg said faintly.

Charley squinted at her. "No, it's not. It's tangerine."

One glance at him told Meg that he was serious. "It's great, Charley," she told him with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. "I didn't know you were looking for a new car, though."

He grabbed her arm and pulled her closer to inspect it. "I wasn't, until last night," he said happily. "I was driving home and saw it in someone's front yard with a For Sale sign in the window. I just had to have it."

If Charley's dad had doubted his masculinity before, Meg thought, he'd be really stymied now. "What happened to your old car?" She peered through the window. All she could see was a sea of orange – no, tangerine -- upholstery.

Charley just waved his hand dismissively. "That old thing? I traded it for this one, so I basically got it for free. I did feel a little bad about that, though. That poor guy's stuck with my Beamer."

His dad was going to kill him. "I wouldn't worry about that guy," Meg told him. "I think he's okay with the way things turned out. I mean, it's not like the 3 Series is a bucket of bolts."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. It just didn't have any _character_."

"Well, this one has character in spades."

The two of them spent the next hour going over the car inch by inch until Meg glanced at the clock. "I've got to get home," she cried, pulling her legs out of the orange car (it was orange, no matter what Charley said). "I promised Dad we'd have ice cream together tonight."

Charley waved at her absently. "I'll talk to you in the morning," he called from under the seat. Meg suspected he was trying to figure out how his mirror would fit there. After all, he'd told her a little defensively, the only thing the car lacked was a proper place to view his whole face at the same time.

*** *** ***

The lights were on when Meg made her way into her father's portion of the house. "Hey, Dad," she called. "I brought fudge ripple."

She could hear the clatter of spoons hitting the table, and when she walked into the kitchen Arthur was setting two bowls out. "I'm surprised Charley isn't here," he commented, looking behind her. "Is he outside?"

"No, he's still at the mall. He traded in his BMW for an old clunker."

"That doesn't surprise me a whole lot." Arthur's tone was mild.

They ate in relative silence until Arthur cleared his throat. "How are things at work these days?" he asked, stirring the contents of his bowl and avoiding her eyes. "You hardly ever talk about it."

What am I supposed to say? Meg thought resignedly. I work for Attila the Hun and her equally Hun-ny issue, they play loud, crass music, and all my old customers are afraid to come in when the owner's there? "It's okay," she settled on finally. "It's a lot different than it used to be."

Arthur grunted and stirred faster. His ice cream was starting to resemble a milkshake. "I'm sorry I haven't been there since . . . well, for a while," he said slowly. "I haven't felt like doing much of anything recently."

Meg ate her ice cream faster so she could make a hasty escape, and immediately got a brain freeze. Arthur looked up when she winced.

"I know I haven't been there for you, honey." He reached over to put his hand over hers. "I haven't been a very good father for you."

There was no good answer to that, so Meg remained quiet.

"But I'm planning on changing that." The softened ice cream sloshed against the sides of the bowl when he pushed it away. "Bill called to invite me to his cottage for the summer, and I accepted."

Meg's spoon halted in midair. "How is that going to make you a better father?" she asked, not caring that she sounded incredulous. "You just finished telling me that you were going to be more . . . aware. How are you going to do that from Florida while you mooch off your old college roommate?"

Arthur ran a hand through his thinning white hair. "I need to get away, gain some perspective," he said quietly. "Everywhere I look I see traces of her and it's driving me crazy. Leaving will help me remember the good times we had, and maybe I'll stop dreaming about that horrible day last year when you called from the hospital."

"You're just thinking of this now? She's been gone a while, Dad." Meg fought to keep her voice even. She wasn't sure that she was very successful.

Arthur's voice held the sorrow of the ages when he responded. "I know." He covered his eyes for a minute, and when he looked at her again his cheeks were damp. "I told Bill I'd leave next Monday. Will you see me off?"

Meg represses the urge to say something snide like "The first week in March is hardly the start of the summer" and nodded instead. "I'll be here." Then she rinsed her bowl in the sink, placed it carefully in the dishwasher, and went up to her apartment where she'd be free to cry in peaceful anonymity.

*** *** ***

Monday morning Meg walked slowly into The Glass Slipper, wondering idly when Mamie would try to replace her sign. So far she hadn't said a word about it. Meg was hardly going to bring it up.

Charley bounded in at three seconds past ten, just as Meg was hoisting the gate open. "How did it go this morning?" he asked, glancing at her pale face.

Shrugging, she ran her fingers over a pair of sandals that Brittany had made her display the day before. Meg had tried to explain that it was March, and sandal weather in Michigan was still a long way off, but Brittany sneered and ordered twenty more pairs. Meg had nearly thrown the thing at her.

"It went okay. He only took one suitcase with him, so maybe he'll be back sooner that he says."

Charley opened his mouth, probably to tell her that she was better off living in the house alone than with a grief-stricken old man, when Mamie and the Steppe sisters came in.

"Why aren't you doing something productive?" Mamie snapped, throwing her purse on the counter with a thud. For the thousandth time Meg wondered what she could possibly keep in there that was so heavy.

"I was just about to – "

"I was just about to tell Meg some news," Charley interrupted.

"News? What kind of news?" Mamie was a sucker for gossip, and Charley was her best informant. Between that and the customers Charley sent their way (at least used to send over), Mamie was always civil to him.

He glanced at Meg out of the corner of his eye. "Do you know who the Kingstons are?"

Brittany picked up an order form and started fanning herself. "You mean, Harvard God's-gift-to-single-women-everywhere Kingston?"

Charley rolled his eyes. "He has a father, Brittany. The elder Kingston is the one that built this mall, and dozens of others across the Midwest. He's sending his son here next week to oversee some remodeling. I think." He frowned. "My sources are a little vague on his reasons for coming."

Brittany squealed. "I've got to get prepared," she cried, and darted out of the shop. Meg noticed she'd remembered to take her wallet with her.

"How does Brittany know Harvard Kingston?" Meg wondered aloud. "I've been here my entire life, and I've never seen either of them."

Charley smirked at her. "The internet, Meg. I'm sure you've heard of it. She probably googled him and found out that he was tall, dark, and handsome. Or, at the very least, insanely rich."

"All of the above, actually. If I was ten years younger Brittany'd have some serious competition." Mamie's cool voice broke into their conversation. Meg almost gagged. Only ten years? She had to be at least fifty, and if Brittany was this excited about him he couldn't be much older than she was. Brittany didn't like her boyfriends too old. "Thank you for the information, Mr. Grimm," Mamie said sweetly. "I'm sure you need to get back to your own store."

Her voice hardened when Charley had disappeared around the corner. "Well, Meg Bailey, it appears that you have some work ahead of you." She smiled to herself and pulled a roll of thick blue tape out of her purse. Perhaps that was what made the noise, Meg thought distractedly. "You have a lot to do in very little time. I'd suggest you start with the walls."

Meg stared at the tape in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"A complete remodel of the store. It's highly overdue. I'll make a list of everything I want you to do." With that, Mamie grabbed her purse and hurried into the back room, humming the wedding march as she went.

Five days later, after everyone had gone for the night, Meg stood in the middle of The Glass Slipper and turned slowly in a circle. She felt like she'd been swallowed by a gecko.

When she stopped she stared at the walls for a long time, sank into a chair, placed her head in her hands, and sobbed until there were no more tears left.

Harvard Kingston had better be worth it, she thought fiercely.

Somehow, she doubted it.

Thanks to those of you who left me a review! Yeah, you're right, asianinvasion – I was Austen-ed out. Maybe I'll do Emma after this.

Let me know what you think; I love to hear your opinions!


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

If Harvard Kingston didn't show up soon Meg was going to hunt him down, drag him to The Glass Slipper by his left ear, and leave him to Brittany's devices.

It might be kind of fun, actually.

"He's bound to come today." Brittany stared at her reflection in the mirror she'd made Meg install behind the cash register, running her fingers through her long hair. Meg swore that it got lighter with every day that had passed since Charley had told them about the Kingston visit, and by now it was nearly white. Brittany flung her hair over her shoulder and smiled at herself toothily. "I can feel it. How do I look?"

Meg resisted the urge to tell her that she looked slightly desperate. "Fine. Do you know when the new shipment's supposed to arrive? Someone needs to be here to sign for it."

Brittany pursed her lips. "Like I would know. Ask Whitney."

"I did. She said you'd know since you placed the order."

Brittany huffed and stomped around the counter. She grabbed a piece of paper and shoved it into Meg's hands. "Read it for yourself."

Meg scanned the note, which she'd already read three times before, and raised her eyebrows. "It says, 'delivery time: Harvard K has a nice rear'. Did you write this?"

Two red spots blossomed on Brittany's cheeks, and she snatched the paper back. "I'm going shopping," she snapped, and stalked past the rows of shoes, out the door, and into the mall's main hallway.

Ten seconds later Whitney appeared from the back room. "Brittany forgot her wallet," she said, clutching a purse to her chest. "I'll be back in a second."

Meg laughed to herself and resumed her dusting. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard a voice clear behind her.

"Excuse me, miss," said a male voice. "My fiancée sent me here to order a pair of shoes for my wedding."

Meg turned to see a young man, obviously nervous, gripping a piece of paper that undoubtedly had the name of her store on it. "You must be Carrie's groom," she said, smiling at him. He just looked more uncomfortable.

"I am. Can you help me? She swears this is the only store in town that can get me the right pair of shoes."

Meg was sure Carrie hadn't meant that literally; she probably felt guilty for getting Meg in trouble and had sent her man in to make financial amends. "I don't have a lot of experience in men's shoes," she told him cheerfully, "but I'll do the best I can. What exactly were you looking for?"

Halfway through his garbled explanation Whitney came back in. She took one look at the man and stopped in shock.

"Whitney, this is Grant, Carrie's fiancée. I believe you met her when she came to pick up her slippers last week."

Recognition dawned in Whitney's eyes, and she came forward with her hand outstretched. "Is Meg helping you find something?" she asked. Her voice was still quiet, but it sounded comforting and reassuring. "I'm sure she can steer you toward something both you and Carrie will like."

"It would help if I knew what she's looking for," Grant muttered under his breath. Whitney's smile got even gentler.

Forty minutes later Grant was looking much more relaxed. He even cracked a smile at Meg. "I'll call you when these come in," she told him, scribbling down his phone number as he rattled it off. "I think you'll be pleased with what you chose."

"I still don't see why you had to order five pairs of shoes," he said, frowning down at his feet. "I only need one."

Meg laughed. "I told you I wasn't very good at men's shoes. I want to make sure you have what fits, and what's comfortable. I can always sell the others, or send them back."

Grant shook his head in wonder. "I'll never understand women and shoes," he said.

Meg stared down at the catalogue in front of her for a long time. She and Alice had discussed selling men's shoes, but her mother's death and the store's subsequent sale had put an end to that. Maybe she could sell them on the sly, like she was for her old customers. She tapped her finger against her chin thoughtfully. When she raised her head Whitney was standing on the other side of the counter, watching her with a wistful expression.

"I'm sorry, Whitney. I must have been wool gathering. Do you need me to do something?"

Whitney shook her head. "I listened while you talked to Grant," she said in a quiet voice. "You were very nice to him. If it had been Brittany he would have run screaming out the door ten seconds after he walked through it."

Meg fought the urge to laugh. "I'm not sure Brittany would approve of what I just did," she responded, closing the catalogue and stowing it in its hiding place under the garbage can. No one ever emptied it but her, so it was the safest place to keep things she didn't want Mamie or Brittany to see.

Whitney shrugged. "I'll take care of her. We'll get our nails done when he comes to try them on." She flashed a smile at Meg so small she was sure she'd imagined it, and retreated to the back to sign for the delivery.

*** *** ***

A week later, Brittany had just about given up on Harvard Kingston ever showing his face in the mall. "He's not coming," she whined, inspecting herself yet again in the mirror. "I don't know why I bother getting all dressed up every day when the only people that see me are _customers_." She said the last word like it was coated with rancid milk.

"Those _customers_ pay for you to go to the salon," Meg pointed out. "You might want to think about being nice to them."

Brittany made a very unladylike noise just as Mamie glided in. Meg wasn't sure how she did that; for all intents and purposes, Mamie should be more of a stomper than a glider, but somehow she pulled it off. It must have come after years and years or practice, Meg mused. Or a really exacting ballet teacher.

"What are you smiling at, Meg Bailey?" Mamie snapped. "Can't you see that Brittany is distraught?"

Meg's gaze flew to Brittany, who was moping at herself in front of the mirror. It looked like she was trying to perfect a sexy pout. If she stuck out her bottom lip much further she'd impale it with her overly spiky heels and poke a hole in it.

"Meg Bailey! Stop laughing at my daughter!" Mamie threw the look of death at Meg, and her smirk vanished. "You'll stay here the rest of the day, and for the rest of the week, by yourself. Then you'll learn how invaluable we are." Mamie grabbed Brittany's elbow and moved her out of the shop. "Come, darling. I think you need a new outfit."

Meg and Whitney sighed heavily at the same time. Whitney barked out a laugh that turned into a hiccough when Charley wandered in.

"What are you doing here?" Meg asked, sinking into a chair. They hadn't been as busy recently as they had in months past, and for once the lack of customers was a relief. "I thought you had some big meeting today with the cookie lady."

Charley grinned at Whitney and leaned against the counter. "It didn't take very long to convince her that my intentions were honorable," he told her smugly.

"By that you mean she agreed to provide cookies for your shop as long as she gets proper credit."

Primly, Charley folded his arms across his chest and raised his eyebrows. "I don't know what you're talking about. The cookie lady and I have a very healthy relationship. I eat her cookies, and she gets my money. Everything else is just fluff."

Whitney erupted into laughter. "I hope you share with your customers."

Meg and Charley stared at her. She stared back with wide, shocked eyes. Then, her hand covering her mouth, she backed away toward the store room.

"She has a point," Meg told him after Whitney had disappeared. "You probably should share. You should never stand between a woman and a good chocolate chip cookie."

Charley muttered something unintelligible and gazed at the back wall with an absent expression. "I've never heard her laugh before," he commented. "She should do it more often." He shook himself. "Where's her evil half? Out terrorizing the natives again?"

"No, she's doing some shopping therapy."

Charley nodded knowingly. "That's what I said. You're entirely too nice about the Steppes, Meg. You need to learn to relax and let go of some of the anger you feel toward Mamie. It might be good for you."

"And it might get me less time off." Meg moved to the front of the store and started to clear out another section under the display window.

"What are you doing?" Charley knelt beside her, taking things from her hands and placing them on the floor.

"I've decided to sell a few men's shoes," she replied, her head stuck deep inside the cabinet. "Grant convinced me, and I've ordered a few things to start me off."

Charley shook his head. "I think, after a year or two, you'll be able to buy out Mamie and own this place yourself," he said in an admiring voice.

"You mean, like I should have in the first place?" Meg's words were sharp, and she regretted them almost as soon as they'd left her mouth. "I didn't mean it," she sighed. When Charley threw her a look that said, quite plainly, that he didn't believe her, she relented. "Okay, I meant it. But I'm trying to get over it. It's not like I can do anything about it right now."

Charley looked at her appraisingly. "You will," he said. "Are you sure you don't want to go into business with me? I could clear out a nice large space for you, and you could sell shoes to all my customers. It'd be a match made in heaven."

"What, next door isn't good enough for you?" Meg grinned. "I'll keep that in mind. Thanks, Charley." She hugged him with the arm that wasn't holding twinkle lights and he rested his cheek against the top of her head.

"I'll be next door if you need me," he told her before getting to his feet. "Are we still on for the bookstore tomorrow?"

Meg smiled up at him bravely. "Yeah, we are."

Charley leaned down and ruffled her hair, causing strands to escape from her ponytail and flutter around her face. "It'll be a good way to remember your mom's birthday," he said gently. "She would have thought it a very fitting way to remember her – hot chocolate, shelves and shelves of books, a hot man sitting next to you . . . "

"What, is Harvard Kingston going to be there?" Meg gave a half-hearted laugh at his expression. "I'll be there."

*** *** ***

The last box was just not going to fit. No matter what Meg did, the cabinet door wouldn't close – and that was a problem, since no matter how cluttered the shop became with unattractive footwear, Mamie had an uncanny ability of noticing the one thing that wasn't in its usual place. And any minute now she'd come waltzing through the door on her way to her car.

"I wish she wouldn't insist that the only way out of the mall was through our back door," Meg muttered to herself. "The mall has other exits."

She slapped the box on the floor, sat back on her heels, and closed her eyes. When she opened them again a few seconds later, there was a pair of very large, very scruffy sneakers on the ground in front of her – attached, unfortunately, to a pair of legs.

Meg tried, she really tried, to make sure her customers only saw her at her best – or, at the very least, not at her worst. Sitting on the floor and throwing shoe boxes around hardly qualified as her best, so it was only natural that she felt cross and defensive.

Her eyes traveled up over well-worn jeans and a faded sweatshirt, stopping when they reached the face of one of the handsomest men she'd ever seen. She noted idly that she had to crane her neck back to see the top of his head. He must be quite tall.

"May I help you?" she asked, scrambling to her feet. She felt an uncommon urge to wipe her hands on her skirt.

The man looked amused. "I don't know," he said glancing around the shop. "I was told this place was very tasteful, but I think my informant was either blind or recently suffered a head injury." His gaze lingered on the garish green walls, and he winced.

Meg knew 'tasteful' was not in Mamie's vocabulary, but he didn't need to be so obvious about it. "Can I help you find something while you're here?" she asked, picking the box off the floor and tucking it under her arm. "Were you looking for yourself or someone else? I – We recently added a men's line."

The man regarded her with raised eyebrows. "Myself. I need to restock my wardrobe as my luggage is somewhere over Italy right now." His voice had become noticeably cooler.

Meg wondered if he'd come from Italy or if his luggage was taking a side trip there without permission. She thought about asking, but the man didn't seem to be in a talkative frame of mind – and it was really none of her business. She eyed his shoes and tried to figure out what size he'd wear. She'd spent the past few days wandering around the shoe department at Nordstrom's trying to get a feel for men's feet, and she wasn't sure if she had it down yet.

The man caught her staring at his sneakers and sighed in exasperation. "I don't want to replace those," he said. "I need a dress pair for a meeting tomorrow. You probably don't have anything I'd like, anyway."

Meg resisted the urge to stomp on said sneakers. How did he know what she had in stock? Was he some sort of shoe store spy? Instead, she smiled at him so sweetly she could feel her teeth rotting. "I might have more than you think," she informed him, glad she'd had the foresight to order a few abnormal sizes. It was pure coincidence that she was holding one of them at that moment. "Perhaps these will work for you." She thrust the box at him and watched closely as he opened it.

The look on his face made her give herself a mental pat on the back. Maybe this men's shoe thing wouldn't be as hard as she'd thought. As he reached inside to pull one out, her cell phone rang with the familiar strains of Nat "King" Cole's "Unforgettable".

The man rolled his eyes. "Very tasteful," he muttered under his breath. Meg wondered if he knew that she could hear him. He must, she thought. It's not like I'm very far away from him.

"Are you going to get that?" The man's voice was polite, but his eyes were annoyed. "You might as well. I'm sure it's your boyfriend; he'll keep calling back until you do."

Meg glared at him and flipped open her phone. "What?" she demanded. "I'm with a customer."

Charley's words almost tripped over themselves im his gossip-induced excitement. "Do you know who he is?"

Glancing back at the man, who had sat down to toe off his sneakers, she smiled to herself. The shoe he was trying on slid onto his foot like they were made for him. "Who?" she asked. "And why does it matter?"

"That's _Harvard Kingston_!"

Meg almost dropped the phone, and the man – Harvard Kingston, evidently – stifled a smirk. "Where are you?" she demanded, trying to cover her surprise.

"Right outside."

Sure enough, when she looked out the door, there stood Charley, cell phone stuck to his ear. "Is he everything Brittany hoped he'd be?" he asked, laughing into the phone.

Meg rolled her eyes and flipped the phone closed. Turning to Harvard (should she refer to him as Mr. Kingston?), she knelt down at his feet.

"Stand up, please."

Harvard stared at her and didn't move.

"Please stand up," she repeated. "I won't know if they fit unless you do."

He slowly got to his feet and watched as she felt the sides of his shoes and then the toes. "Walk around for me," she told him. When he didn't move – was he unaccustomed to taking orders from a sales lady? – she huffed and stood up herself. "You do it like this," she said, and proceeded to take several exaggerated steps around the shop's interior. "I realize that the décor isn't to your specifications, but I'd hate to have you walk out of here in a pair of shoes that'll give you a blister."

Harvard stared at her in bemusement for a few seconds before finally, finally placing one foot in front of the other. After he'd circled the shelves a few times he halted in front of her. "I'll take them," he said. She couldn't tell if he was angry or amused, and she didn't dare look at his face. She'd just been rude to the one person who could evict her – although, come to think of it, it might be worth it to see Mamie and Brittany kicked out of the mall.

Harvard watched her as she rang up his purchase and slid his box into one of the shop's signature silver bags. As she handed it to him he leaned over the counter, took it, and extended his free hand. "I'm Harvard Kingston, by the way," he said, flashing a smiled that would have melted her knees had she not been so irritated. "And you – "

Brittany's squeal interrupted him. Emotions warred inside Meg's head – she was irritated by Brittany's voice, as always, but also a little – a very little – glad that she'd be able to witness the meeting between Harvard and his biggest fan. "Harvard! You're finally here!" Brittany squealed, and ran as fast as her heels would allow to his side.

Meg wondered fleetingly how Brittany had known it was him from the view she had of him from the doorway. Did Google provide pictures of people from all angles? Of course, as much as she hated to admit it, he had a very nice backside. She'd watched it as it made its way around the store in his new shoes.

Harvard's charming smile dropped a little before he turned in Brittany's direction. "Do we know each other?" he asked, looking her up and down. "I don't think I've had the pleasure."

Brittany giggled and ran a hand through her hair. "I'm Brittany Steppe," she said in a breathy voice. Meg wasn't sure if she was having a hard time breathing or if she thought it made her sound more appealing. "This is my shop."

Harvard glanced at Meg sidelong and caught her rolling her eyes. "Is that so?" His tone was mild. "It's a very . . . " He paused, like he was searching for just the right word. "Interesting place. Did you do the decorating yourself?"

Brittany giggled again. "Me? No, I had Meg do it."

Harvard's eyebrows rose and he looked her up and down once more. "I see." He bent over to pick up his bag and flashed that smile at Meg. "It was nice meeting you, Meg." He emphasized her name. It was almost as though he was proud of himself for figuring out what her name was without having to ask. "I'm sure I'll see you later." He tipped his head in Brittany's direction and was gone.

Brittany managed to contain herself for a full six seconds. Then she erupted. "Harvard Kingston was in my shop and I wasn't here!" she wailed. "What did he do? What did he want? What did he say? What did – "

"I don't really know," Meg told her, busying herself at the register. She didn't think it'd be a very good idea to point out that you could start a question with words that weren't 'what did'. "He came in, looked around, and said his luggage'd been lost." That much was true, she thought. She was really hoping Brittany hadn't noticed that Harvard was carrying one of their bags.

A satisfied smile spread across Brittany's face. "I knew he'd heard of me." She smiled at her reflection in the mirror. "He's already halfway in love with me. I can tell."

"Who was that man leaving my store with one of my bags?" Mamie demanded from the door. "He looked like a very scruffy version of Harvard Kingston."

Brittany whirled around. "It _was_ Harvard! He came to see me!"

Meg almost choked on her water.

"Meg Bailey! Calm yourself! Honestly, girl, you can't even drink a bottle of water without creating a scene." Mamie glowered at her. "It's time to lock up. Brittany, you must tell me everything he said on the way home."

The only thing Meg could think of as the Steppes made their noisy way out of the store was that she was insanely grateful that Mamie had such a short attention span. Who knew what she'd do if she knew Meg had sold Harvard a pair of shoes?

*** *** ***

The bad thing, Meg decided, about Harvard's accidental meeting with Brittany the night before, was that she assumed it would happen again.

Which was why Brittany hung around the store all day, getting in the way and generally making a nuisance of herself.

"Don't you have any shopping to do?" Meg finally asked out of desperation. "Nails to get polished? Hair to color?"

"I don't color my hair," Brittany snapped. A snort wafted from the register where Whitney was standing.

"Shut up, Whitney." Brittany glared at them until a man and woman came through the door. She rushed over to greet them, but when she realized it wasn't who she was hoping for she pouted and told Meg to do her job and sell something.

Brittany didn't give up until the store closed. "Maybe he'll come tomorrow," Meg said with fake sympathy.

"Whatever. Come on, Whitney. It's time to go."

Whitney threw Meg an apologetic look as her sister dragged her out.

Thirty seconds after the back door banged closed Charley walked in. "Come on," he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her away from the shelves she was staring dumbly at. "It's time to blow this joint and have some fun."

"I don't know, Charley," Meg said tiredly. She'd been dreading this all day. "I think all I want to do tonight is go home and soak in the tub."

Charley clicked his tongue at her. "You can do that after we visit the bookstore," he said in a voice that brooked no argument. "I insist. I'll even buy the hot chocolate."

It wasn't that she didn't want to remember Alice, Meg thought. It was just that she was likely to feel weepy, and after a long, frustrating day, she'd turn into a waterworks for sure. "Come on," Charley told her kindly. "It might help take your mind off things. And besides," he added, "you get to ride in Tang."

"Tang?" She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Charley grinned at her. "My new car. You haven't had the pleasure yet."

Some things, Meg thought as they barreled down the road, can wait.

The bookstore was almost deserted by the time they got there, and they sank into overstuffed chairs in the romance section. "I thought you were into histories now." Meg looked around at the titles surrounding them. "Is this a sign that you're in love?"

Charley made a face. "Are you?"

Meg stared at him blankly.

"Come on, Meg. I'm sure Harvard made a huge impression on you."

She sighed and leaned her head back. She could never quite forget that thousands of people (with unknown hair ailments) had placed their own heads in this exact spot, but for once she didn't care that she might go bald because of it. "I think I'm the one that made the huge impression. I . . . wasn't very nice to him."

Charley, who was leaning his elbows on his knees, fell off the chair and landed in a heap on the floor. "What did he do to you?" he spluttered. "You're always nice, even to the evil Steppe sisters."

Meg held out her hand to help him up. "Whitney isn't evil."

He batted her hand away. "Yeah, I know she's not." He looked pointedly at her hand, which she was still holding out. "I'd just pull you down," he told her wryly.

"I'm stronger than I look."

Charley just raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Whatever. I think you're avoiding the question. What did Kingston do to you?"

Meg closed her eyes momentarily in embarrassment. "He didn't _do_ anything." She curled her feet under her and watched as he plopped back in his chair. "He just insulted my mother's store, and I wasn't in the mood to hear it. So I was rude."

Charley regarded her thoughtfully for a minute. "It couldn't have been that bad. I mean, your idea of rude and, say, Brittany's, are totally different. You were probably just being as nice as the rest of us are on a normal day."

She smiled weakly. "I don't know. I can't get over the feeling that Mom would have been very disappointed if she'd seen me." Meg wasn't terribly surprised when the tears started, and before they could make their way down her cheeks she was in Charley's lap.

"Let go," she said without really meaning it. "People will think we're in some sort of sordid relationship."

"Ah, darlin', you only wish we were in some sort of sordid relationship." Charley's matter-of-fact voice made her smile, and she wiped her face on his shirt. "It's okay to cry, you know. It's been a long year, and I think you're entitled to a little emotional release."

All the strength left Meg, and she slumped in his arms. "What would I do without you, Charley?" she asked, not really expecting an answer.

"You'd have a hole in your soul." He grinned down at her. "Same as I would. Now, get back in your own chair and try to look as calm and beautiful as you usually do. I'm off to get some comfort food."

Meg sniffed and dabbed at her nose with the back of her hand. The tears were still behind her eyes, but she wouldn't let Charley see that. "That'd be great." As soon as he'd turned around the closest shelf, she buried her face in her hands and let the dam open.

*** *** ***

Harvard Kingston hated traveling.

His luggage always got lost – it was in Italy this time; his rental car always left a little something to be desired – on this trip, the car ran fine but had an unfortunate ability to lock itself and stay locked, no matter how many times he pushed that stupid button on the key fob; and there was always at least one person, inevitably an employee at the mall, who thought they were meant for each other. Brittany Steppe's crafty, heavily made up face came to mind, and he shuddered. There was rarely any way to discourage them, and Miss Steppe was hardly the exception.

At least one of his problems would be solved in the next hour, though; the rental agency was sending a new car – along with, he hoped, a crowbar – but in the meantime he was stuck at this sad excuse for a restaurant with nothing to do.

He hated eating by himself, too.

He rubbed his jaw and sighed. It was going to be a long six months.

With nothing else to do, Harvard headed across the street to where Barnes & Noble was still open. It wouldn't hurt to look around, he mused. He used to love reading before he got so busy with mall business that he hardly had any time left over to scan the headlines of the local paper, much less a book, and he missed it.

Feeling slightly more cheerful, he pushed open the door and let the warm, book-scented air fill his lungs. It was good to be back.

He made his way through the nonfiction section and was headed for the histories when he stopped in his tracks.

There, sitting in the middle of the romance shelves, was the girl from the shoe store the day before. Meg.

He could tell it was her even with her face bent forward. Harvard glanced down at his feet and curled his toes in appreciation. He hadn't meant to be so snide with her; after all, from the inside the shop hadn't looked as promising as Kyle had promised, but she'd somehow managed not only to sell him the perfect pair of dress shoes, but also put him in his place while she did it.

In a very sweet, enchanting sort of way.

He watched as she raised her head and glanced around. Her cheeks looked shiny, like her makeup had been rubbed off.

Then, when she raised her eyes even higher, he could see why. She'd been crying.

Now, Harvard usually didn't know what to do with crying females, but for some reason he knew exactly what to do with this one. After all, he reasoned, it was probably his fault that she was crying in the first place. It wasn't like he'd been his normal charming self yesterday evening.

So he did the only thing he could. He walked around until he was behind her, leaned over her shoulder, murmured a very heartfelt "I'm sorry" near her ear, and dropped his last clean handkerchief in her lap.

Then he ran and hid.

He stood, heart racing, behind a row of romance novels and watched as she picked his handkerchief up slowly and examined it. She looked around for the owner, and when he ducked even further behind the shelf (it was very inconvenient at times to be quite so tall) he was staring at a picture of a woman who was wearing some sort of nightgown that left very little to the imagination.

He jumped back and fell onto the floor and into the rows of books behind him. As they toppled onto the ground with a crash, he knew that his day couldn't possibly get any worse.

But of course, whenever a statement like that pops into a man's head, he's almost assured that it'll be proven wrong.

A very short, very stout saleslady with wire-rimmed glasses appeared in front of him as though by magic. "Were you planning on buying that?" she asked, peering down her stubby little nose at him.

"Buying what?" he asked blankly before realizing that the same book that had caused all the commotion was now in his lap. "Ah, yes. 'The Love Pirates.'" He hadn't noticed that the nearly naked woman was, indeed, wearing an eye patch. "I think I'll pass."

As Harvard made his way around the books (the saleslady had told him in no uncertain terms was he to help with re-shelving) he glanced back at Meg.

She had wiped her face dry and was staring at his handkerchief with a strange expression on her face.

Maybe he'd ask her out to dinner. It would give him an opportunity to apologize for his bad behavior, and he'd have the added benefit of a dinner partner.

He opened the door and paused. The fact that she was beautiful didn't hurt matters, but there was something about that girl that intrigued him. And if there was one thing Harvard Kingston couldn't resist, it was an intrigue.

Now all he had to do was convince her that he could remember his manners all the way through a three-course meal.

How hard could it be?

Author's note: Thanks to everyone who left a review; I'm glad that someone is reading this! I know it's a bit different from Austen, but it's almost more fun.

Let me know how you like it so far; this is the first time I've ever written something from the male perspective, and I'd love to hear how it is!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Meg entered The Glass Slipper the following morning feeling a little off kilter. She hadn't seen who'd dropped the handkerchief in her lap, but it must have been Harvard. Who else did she know with the initials HDK?

Wondering idly what the 'D' stood for, Meg placed the handkerchief in a bag under the garbage can just as Brittany flounced in. "Has Harvard come in yet?" she demanded even before she checked her reflection. This must be quite the crush, Meg thought in amusement. Brittany was addicted to staring at herself like some people were to coffee – she couldn't function until she was sure she looked positively fabulous.

"We're not open yet, Brittany."

Brittany scowled. "Don't do that, dear." Mamie's voice wafted into the room. "Nothing's more unattractive to a man than frown lines."

Whitney, who'd trailed in after her mother, slipped past her and started to plug in the vacuum. "Whitney!" Mamie cried. "What do you think you're doing?"

Whitney jerked back with wide eyes. "Vacuuming?" she whispered.

Mamie grabbed it out of her hands and thrust it at Meg, who took it automatically – even though she'd vacuumed the night before. "You don't do this kind of work," she cooed at her daughter. "This is what we pay Meg Bailey to do."

Meg took a deep breath and recited to herself, "Don't do anything stupid . . . Don't do anything stupid . . . " while Mamie steered her daughters toward the front gate. "Meg Bailey!" she barked without turning around. "Open this up. It's time to get to work."

"Where are we going?" Brittany asked in a petulant voice. "Why did you make me get up this early? You know I hate to be here when the customers start coming in."

"Because we need to be ready when Harvard comes back to ask you out." Mamie strode into the hall and made her way toward the atrium. "We need to plan our attack. You need to make sure that Harvard notices something different about you every day . . ."

As Mamie's voice died away, Meg and Whitney shuddered. "I know I wasn't very nice to him yesterday," Meg said without thinking, "but there's no way I'd wish that kind of . . . torture on him. Maybe I should warn him."

There was a long pause. "We probably should."

Meg closed her eyes and groaned inwardly. "I'm sorry," she told Whitney. "I didn't mean that the way it came out. I'm sure Brittany is very . . . is very . . . "

"Annoying? Obnoxious? Spoiled?" Whitney's voice was only a little bitter.

Meg's eyes flew open. She didn't know what to say, so she remained quiet.

"I'm glad he met you first," Whitney said, staring out the window in the direction her family had gone. "Brittany's been hankering after him for so long it's kind of refreshing to see her hopes dashed. Even if she can't see it yet." She smiled at Meg – a friendly, hesitant smile that told Meg there was more to Whitney Steppe than she'd thought. "Here he comes, by the way. I'll make sure you aren't interrupted."

Whitney yanked the vacuum away from her and darted back through the store, leaving Meg to stare after her. Knowing she looked like an idiot, Meg turned toward the open gate.

Harvard stood there in the doorway for a moment while Whitney made her escape and watched Meg. He smiled slowly, then bent down and unlaced one of his shoes. Meg stared in fascination as he took it off his foot and held it out. "This has got to be the best shoe I've ever worn," he told her solemnly.

"Is the other one defective?"

Harvard, who'd been making his way in her direction, stopped cold. "Excuse me?"

"If that shoe is the best, then the one that's still on your foot must be second rate. Are you here to return it?"

Meg would have slapped a hand over her mouth, but since she was this far in she didn't want to give Harvard the satisfaction of knowing that she was perfectly aware that she'd just royally embarrassed herself.

Harvard's eyes narrowed at her, and then he grinned. "Very funny. I'm actually here to thank you for your help yesterday." He looked at Meg expectantly.

Was this the point where she was supposed to fall to the ground and kiss his feet for letting her use his handkerchief? Meg asked herself crossly. She'd never groveled in front of a customer before, and she was hardly going to start now – no matter how good-looking he was.

"You're welcome. Did you want another pair?"

Harvard's eyebrows shot up. "Not if my luggage makes a miraculous return, but thanks for asking." He cleared his throat and rested his shoe on the chair that was between them. It seemed like he was trying to decide something, Meg thought. She just didn't know what that was.

"Can I get anything else for you? I have bottled water in the back."

"No, no water." Harvard's mouth moved like he wanted to scowl but had thought better of it. Instead he ran a hand through his hair, which, Meg noticed, didn't get mussed in the slightest. He must rival Charley in the hair goo department, she decided. Charley would be thrilled to hear he had something in common with the famous Harvard Kingston.

Meg moved away to open the cash register for the day. When she'd shut the drawer, Harvard was on the other side of the counter, his body entirely too close to hers for comfort.

"I was wondering," he said, shooting that blasted smile of his in her direction. "Would you like to – "

The phone rang, drowning out the rest of his sentence. "Excuse me," Meg told him politely, wondering what she'd just missed. "I'll be right back."

Harvard's eyes stayed on her as she picked up the receiver. Before she could say anything, a weak voice rasped in her ear. "Marilyn?"

Meg sighed in resignation. Would this guy not give up? "There's no Marilyn here, sir," she told the caller wearily. "Just like there wasn't when you called yesterday, or the day before that. Who exactly are you looking for? Maybe I can help you find her. Are you sure you have the right number?"

The man wheezed into the phone a few times. "She didn't give me this number, but she told me where she worked, young lady." He sounded breathlessly indignant. "I'll have you know that I may be old, but I haven't lost all my capabilities yet. I know Monroe is a famous last name, but Marilyn can't help that."

Meg stifled a laugh, and her eyes met Harvard's. "You're looking for Marilyn Monroe?" Obviously this gentleman had lost more than a few of his 'capabilities', as he put it.

"I am. Please tell her I called."

The man hung up before Meg could ask for his name.

Harvard watched her hand as she replaced the receiver and wrote, on the pad she kept by the phone, "Man called for Marilyn Monroe. If she appears, please give her this message."

Harvard laughed outright and grabbed the paper. "That's a good pick-up line," he noted, studying the words she'd written. "Did it work on you?"

Meg snatched her note back from him. "I hardly think so. It sounded like he was at least eighty."

They stood there in silence for what seemed like a long time until someone wandered in and Meg's concentration shifted.

"You never gave me an answer," Harvard said in a voice that implied he didn't necessarily like to be kept waiting.

"An answer to what?" Meg wasn't really paying attention to him anymore; she was the only one out front, so she couldn't exactly stand around the water cooler, so to speak, and yak.

"I just asked you to dinner tonight." Now Harvard sounded irritated.

If this was the way he asked a girl out, Meg thought, he was going to be sadly disappointed. "I'm sorry," she said with false sadness, "but I was on the phone when you asked me so I didn't hear you. If I had, though, I'm pretty sure I know what my answer would have been."

"Is that so? And what would you have said?"

Meg wouldn't have felt like her response was warranted if he hadn't been so sure of success. "No." She turned to the woman standing nervously in front of her. "May I help you?"

"What do you mean, no?" Harvard's voice was incredulous.

Meg smiled apologetically at the woman. "I'll be right with you." She moved back toward the cash register, Harvard hot on her heels. "I'm working," she hissed at him, planting her hands on her hips. "I realize you've probably never worked in retail before, but it's considered rude to monopolize a person's conversation unless you're here to buy something."

From his expression, Meg assumed Harvard Kingston had never been talked to like that before – and he didn't like it very much. "Thank you for the clarification," he told her between clenched jaws. He nodded politely to the woman, who'd been watching the encounter with rapt interest, and stalked stiffly out of the shop.

*** *** ***

Whitney snuck in around noon and told Meg to go have some lunch. "Away from here," she ordered, shooing her out the door. "I don't want to see you for at least an hour."

Meg was so surprised that she forgot to protest and let Whitney push her down the hall. Charley met her in front of his store, and they walked toward the food court together.

"What's up with you?" he asked, glancing at her face. "You look like something strange has happened."

Suddenly, astonishing even herself, Meg grinned. "I think Whitney has finally found her backbone." She laughed. "She kicked me out of the store and told me to grab some lunch. Are you headed that way? I haven't had a lunch break in over a year, and I might need you to help me remember how to order food."

Charley stopped dead in the middle of the atrium. "Whitney said that? As in, Whitney-who-has-a-terror-for-a-mother Steppe? I don't believe you."

Meg stuck her tongue out at him. For some reason, she was feeling very pleased with life in general for the first time in a long while. "She did," she told him airily. "I think she might actually be a good person. Now, come on. Remind me where to go for the best food."

Half an hour later they were sitting by the window, watching people as they made their way in and out of the mall. "I know this is a strange thing to say about a food court, but it's so peaceful out here," Meg sighed. "It almost makes me wish Mom had sold Chinese food instead of shoes."

"You hate Chinese food," Charley pointed out.

Shrugging, Meg took another bite of her pizza and slid down in her chair in contentment. "I probably would have loved it if I grew up around it. Except tofu," she added, shuddering. "That stuff should be banned."

Charley watched her eating. "You know all that grease will give you a spot," he noted critically. "Don't blame me when you wake up tomorrow morning with a huge pimple in the middle of your forehead."

Meg wrinkled her nose at him. "You're just jealous," she said cheerfully around another mouthful. "You're bitter because you couldn't convince me to order a salad like you did, and now you wish you'd followed my example."

"Ha." He waited until she'd put her slice down and picked up her bottle of water before reaching across the table and grabbing it. Charley inhaled her pizza while she spluttered water all over her blouse.

"See if I go to lunch with you again," she said crossly. "That pizza was good!"

Charley grinned, satisfied with himself. "I know." He wiped his fingers on her napkin and gazed at her steadily. "I'll buy you another one tomorrow. Now, tell Uncle Charley something. What was Harvard Kingston doing, storming out of The Glass Slipper this morning? He looked angry."

Meg sighed. She'd been wondering all through their lunch how long it would take Charley to bring this up. "He came in right after Mamie and Brittany left this morning," she said slowly. "I think he was expecting me to express my undying gratitude for the use of his handkerchief last night. When I didn't give it to him, he got a little miffed."

"Wait a minute." Charley's gossip radar perked up. "What's this about a handkerchief? I was with you last night, and I never saw him – or a handkerchief."

"He wandered by while you were getting the hot chocolate." Meg explained what had happened at the bookstore, and ended with, "I'm afraid I wasn't very nice to him this morning. He asked me to go to dinner with him, and I – ahem – could have been a little kinder when I told him 'no'."

Charley's chin dropped so far she could see the scars from his tonsillectomy. "He what? He asked you out? Was Brittany there?"

She smiled in spite of herself. "No, she wasn't. It was almost like Harvard had been lying in wait for her to leave." She paused for a second. It had been very convenient for him to come in when he did. Maybe he had better judgment than she'd given him credit for.

Charley watched her closely. "Are you regretting your answer?"

Meg thought about that. True, Harvard hadn't been charming and sweet, but maybe he wasn't a morning person. And she certainly hadn't made things easy for him with all her teasing about his new shoes. "I don't know," she finally replied. "A little, I guess. It would be nice to go out again with a boy, and it would be a good place to apologize." She raised her eyes to Charley's and grinned mischievously. "And, on the plus side, he _is_ awfully nice on the eyes."

Charley leaned back in his chair and laughed. "And men get a bad rap for ogling buxom women," he snickered. "Listen to yourself."

Meg could feel herself blushing. "That's not the only reason," she muttered, turning her attention to her damp blouse and trying not to look flustered. "I need to tell him I'm sorry – and give his hankie back."

Smiling knowingly, Charley handed her a clean napkin. "Whatever you say."

*** *** ***

Aside from Brittany's excited squawking ("I saw Harvard in Tiffany's, Mother!"), the next few days were relatively quiet. Mamie was rarely in the store, and when she was she was too distracted with Brittany's love life, or her prospective love life, to give Meg much additional work.

It was rather nice, actually.

Friday evening, after Brittany had left in a huff ("Where _is_ that man?" she demanded of no one in particular as she jerked her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. "He's supposed to be _right here_, with me!") Meg's eyes caught Whitney's and they smiled in a friendly sort of way at each other, listening as Brittany stomped through the back entrance.

"Where's your mom?" Meg didn't really care where she was, but if she was going to do something about that infernal music blaring through the store she wanted to be sure Mamie was gone for the day.

Whitney shrugged. "I don't know. She told us this morning that she'd be away all weekend and we were to take care of things here."

"Oh." To hide her surprise, Meg opened the back door to let some cool air inside. It was early April, so there was still snow on the ground, but after spending an entire day inside a too-warm store the cold air felt good in her lungs. "Where's your car?"

When Whitney didn't answer right away Meg glanced over at her. "I called a taxi to pick me up later," she said, avoiding Meg's eyes. "I'll unload these boxes, and you go out front and take care of the customers." She shot Meg a rare, genuine smile. "You're much better with people than I am, anyway."

Maybe I should invite Whitney over to the house for ice cream, Meg mused as she turned the loud music off and replaced it with one of her original The Glass Slipper CDs. She certainly seems like she could use a friend.

Standing in the middle of the shop, Meg closed her eyes and listened to Louis Armstrong croon about building dreams. She could almost – almost – imagine that the past year had never happened and that when she opened her eyes again the walls would no longer be neon green and Alice would be fussing with the window display.

She smiled to herself and, eyes still closed, turned in a slow circle, letting her skirt flutter around her knees. When she opened them she was looking straight into the thoughtful face of Harvard Kingston.

Meg cleared her throat and ran a hand over her hair to make sure her pony tail was still intact. "Hello, Harvard," she said in a calm voice.

"Hello, Meg." Harvard rested his hip against a chair and regarded her. "I like this music much better."

"Me, too," she sighed, letting the dreamy expression creep over her face.

"It fits you better than that other . . . stuff."

Meg took a deep breath and wrenched herself back into the present. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'm forgetting my manners. Can I help you?"

Harvard eased his body upright again and cleared his throat. "I'm here for another pair of shoes. The other ones are wonderful," he added hurriedly, "but I find that I need another one. Brown, perhaps."

Can my eyebrows get any closer to the top of my head? Meg thought even as she bent down to rummage through her secret stash in the cupboard. "Brown?" she called over her shoulder. "I don't know if I have anything in your size."

Harvard didn't look bothered at all. "That's okay," he said easily. "I'm not going anywhere. Can you order them?"

She blinked at him. "Of course. Do you know what you want?"

Stepping closer to her, Harvard's eyes flashed. "Yes, I do, but you won't do anything to help me."

Somehow Meg was sure she was missing something. "I'll order your shoes," she told him, a little confused. "But they probably won't be here for a few days. I can try to – "

Harvard smiled that astonishing smile of his. "That wasn't what I was referring to," he said, and his smile softened when she finally tilted her head back so she could see his face properly. "I was talking about dinner plans. I wish you'd reconsider."

He looked so earnest that Meg's mouth opened almost automatically to say that not only would she love to have dinner with him, but they could stop by the church on the way home and get married. "Come on," he coaxed, smiling confidently. "You know you want to."

The mouth that had been about to pledge undying love and devotion snapped shut. He must be one of those snakes that charms its prey before it gets swallowed up whole, she thought, blinking rapidly to clear her head. "_You_ know I want to," she countered, crossing her arms over her chest, "but _I_ don't."

Harvard's smile faltered. "Sure you do," he insisted, although his tone was not quite as assured as it had been only seconds before. "Why wouldn't you?"

Meg regarded him in silence. He had the looks, the bank account (she was guessing here, but hadn't Brittany said something about him being rich?) and the winning smile that most women coveted. He also had an amazingly large ego.

"I don't think you're my type," she said finally.

Now Harvard looked affronted. "I'm everyone's type."

For the first time in her life, Meg laughed at a boy to his face. And Harvard Kingston didn't like it at all. "Will you listen to yourself?" she asked, shaking off the feeling that she was repeating the same words Charley had said to her. "_You're everyone's type_?"

Harvard had the grace to look uncomfortable. "Well, maybe not everyone's," he muttered defensively. "Are you telling me no? Again?"

That made Meg pause. "I don't know," she said, tilting her head back to see him better. How had he gotten so close to her? she wondered idly. "I usually make it a point to go out with any boy that asks once, no matter who he is, but . . . "

Harvard must have seen something in her face, because he pounced on her last statement. "I'm a boy," he reminded her unnecessarily, "and you haven't gone out with me yet. Give me a chance, Meg. You might even have fun."

"I might," she slowly agreed. "And you might end up being a serial killer disguised as a handsome mall owner."

A strange series of expressions crossed his face, the last of which – amusement – remained. "You're worried that I'm going to chop you into little pieces? That's why you won't go out with me?"

It wasn't, of course, but Meg couldn't think of a polite way to say "I think you're too arrogant and cocky to go out with you." So instead, she just shrugged.

"What if I let you drive yourself to a public, well-lit restaurant of your choosing?" he offered. "I'll even promise not to follow you home, although I bet I could convince your friend over there to give me your last name so I could look you up in the phone book."

Meg's head turned toward the cash register where Whitney stood, frozen. She mouthed "no" before blushing furiously and clapping her hand over her mouth.

"It looks like you'll have to figure it out on your own." Meg laughed at his disappointed expression. "And don't even think about asking Brittany," she added. "She won't give it to you unless you promise to marry her, and even then it's a toss-up."

He shuddered. "I have ways, you know," he warned her. The dazzling smile had vanished, only to be replaced with a grin that suited him much better. She suspected he didn't know that.

*** *** ***

An hour later they were sitting across a table from each other at Applebee's. "I can't believe you brought me here," he said, glancing around. "I haven't been to one of these in years."

Meg lifted a shoulder and examined the menu. "You told me to choose somewhere public and well-lit, and this is on the way home."

"Aha." Harvard leaned back and smiled in satisfaction. "So you live by the mall. The search narrows."

She rolled her eyes. "Why do you care where I live?" she asked. "Was I wrong about the killer thing, and you're really a stalker instead?"

"You wish."

Meg knew that if Charley had said the same thing to her she'd have simply rolled her eyes and told him to shut up. But when those words came out of Harvard's mouth, they sounded . . . different. Not evil, I'm-going-to-track-you-to-the-ends-of-the-earth-and-eat-you-for-lunch different, but . . . different. She wasn't sure if she liked it or not.

"I have something for you," she said, interrupting the silence that had fallen between them. She fished in her pocket and handed him his handkerchief. "Thank you for letting me use it at the bookstore the other day. I would have given it back sooner, but -- "

"But I was unpardonably rude. I know."

Meg blinked. He wasn't supposed to be apologizing, she was.

"So I understand why you told me to take a flying leap the first time I asked you to dinner," he continued, staring up at the light fixture hanging over their table. "The only explanation I can offer is that I hate, and I mean _hate_, to – "

"Wait a minute." She disliked interrupters, but very occasionally there was a need for it. "What do you think you're doing? I was the one that was rude, not you!"

Harvard stared at her incredulously. "I made you cry."

Meg made a noise that was half laugh, half snort. "You didn't make me cry," she told him, and was grateful for the server's timely arrival.

Harvard didn't take his eyes off her while they ordered their dinners, much to the waitress's disappointment. She leaned over the table to refill his glass, giving him, Meg was pretty sure, a decent view down her shirt, but Harvard didn't seem to notice. The girl shot Meg a dirty look and flounced away without a backward glance. If Meg was the betting type, and she wasn't, she'd bet that his tacos would come out burned – or worse. She busied herself with her napkin when they were alone again, hoping that he'd change the subject.

He didn't. "What do you mean, I didn't make you cry?" Harvard seemed to be having a hard time understanding this. "I was rude to you the day we met, just before I saw you at Barnes & Noble. You were crying like your heart was breaking – wait." His eyes narrowed. "You have a boyfriend."

"I do?"

"Don't you?"

This is absurd, Meg thought. We're arguing about who was ruder. "I don't. And really, you weren't the worst customer I've seen in the past year." Or employee, she added silently. "So please, if this whole dinner thing is a way to make you feel better about yourself, consider your debt to society paid in full."

Totally ignoring the last half of her dialogue, Harvard leaned his elbows on the table and shook his head. "Then, if it wasn't me being an idiot and you don't have a boyfriend that treated you like crap, why were you crying?"

It always came back to this, Meg thought wearily. No matter how hard she tried to shove the memories away, someone always insisted on bringing them back up. "It was my mother's birthday," she told him shortly, and took a huge gulp of her water. Hydration, she reminded herself. Charley would be so proud of me.

Harvard regarded her steadily while she drank. "I'm sorry your mother got a year older," he said with a straight face after she placed her glass, empty, back on the table. "But these things happen. You might as well get used to it."

"She died a year ago." It was almost a relief to have the words out in the open.

The color drained from Harvard's face just before he buried it in his hands. "Please tell me that's a very bad joke."

Meg took a deep breath. "It's not. I was thinking, back at the bookstore, that she would have been very disappointed in me for the way I treated you in the shop. I'm sorry," she said, staring down at her fork. "I should have remembered that I'm not the only person who's ever had a bad day." She wasn't too surprised when she had to blink hard, and she scrambled on her lap for her napkin.

One of Harvard's hands closed around the handkerchief she'd just given back to him and thrust it in her direction. "A fine date this is turning out to be," he said drily. "First I argue with you over who's the bigger jerk, and then I make you cry – proving," he added, pointing a finger at her, "that it _is_ me. So I'd appreciate it if you'd stop bickering about it and let me bask in the glow of my status in peace. I don't much feel like sharing."

Meg wiped her eyes on his hankie. I should just buy him another set, she thought. This one seems to be attached to me. "I don't usually cry at dinnertime," she said after it was evident that Harvard wasn't going to say anything. "I'm normally quite lively."

"I'm sure you are." He emerged from behind his hands and sighed heavily, and Meg took a proper look at him. Once she saw beyond the good looks and charm, she could see the tired lines around his mouth and his blurry eyes.

"Are you okay?" she asked gently. Her hand itched to cross the table and rest on his, but she didn't know what he'd do. She wasn't sure she wanted to find out.

"I'm fine." He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands and sat up straighter in his seat. "It takes a lot of effort to avoid someone like Brittany, that's all." The smile he flashed at her had lost a little of its brilliance, and Meg felt some of her reserves softening.

"Tell me about it. I've been doing it for a year now, and it hasn't gotten any easier."

Harvard snorted and waited while the waitress silently dumped their plates on the table. "What's with her?" he asked before digging into his dinner.

"I think she wanted you to notice her."

Harvard didn't seem fazed by this. "I'm on a date with you," he reminded her. "It would be extremely rude of me to pay attention to another woman. I bet you haven't given that guy at the bar a second glance, and he's been ogling you since we walked in."

Meg flushed. "What guy?"

Grinning, Harvard turned his attention back to his food. "My point exactly." He thought for a second, then said a little too casually, "Brittany's mother seems very . . . interesting."

Meg was tempted to snort in response, but she'd just taken a bite of mashed potatoes and didn't think that would be terribly attractive. "Interesting is a very nice word to describe Mamie Steppe."

"Her name's Mamie? Was she born in the wild west about a century ago?"

His eyes twinkled at her, and she grinned. "You're a fine one to talk," she said pointedly. "It's not like you meet people named Harvard every day. How'd you get your name?"

A pained expression crossed his face. "It's not very interesting," he said evasively.

He was avoiding the subject, and Meg knew it. "I don't believe you. Please, Harvard Kingston?" She gave him the look that always made Charley cave in, and it worked on Harvard, too. He groaned and pushed his plate away. He must have been terribly hungry. Either that or he was used to eating at a breakneck speed.

"Don't do that to an innocent guy. It's not nice." He lifted his eyes to the ceiling and sighed. "It's all my father's fault, really. When my mother found out that I was going to be a boy, he started planning my future for me."

"That was nice of him."

He made a face. "Depends on which end of it you're on. Anyway, he decided that the Kingstons needed to set a collegiate tradition, and that we were best suited for – "

"Let me guess," Meg interrupted, laughing a little. "Harvard."

"You got it."

"What about the D? What does it stand for?"

Harvard rolled his eyes. "Dartmouth. That was his back-up plan."

"So did you get in?"

He flashed a smug smile at her. "Yup. Both of them."

"And? How was it? Which school has the honor of being the new Kingston family collegiate tradition?" Meg had a hard time getting that out around her laugh.

He shrugged. "Neither one."

Meg's eyebrows rose. "Where'd you go to school, then?"

Harvard leaned his chair back on its back legs, placed his hands behind his head, and smiled beatifically. "Princeton."

*** *** ***

Harvard watched the taillights of Meg's car fade into the distance thoughtfully and wondered why she was being so reticent. He idly considered the idea that she might be the one with a criminal background before laughing at himself. She was too genuine to pretend to be something she wasn't.

It didn't take him long to get back to his hotel, and he nodded silently to the bellman. As far as hotels went, it was nice. He didn't want to live in it for the next six months, but he supposed it would do.

An hour later he shoved his computer to the other side of the desk, just as clueless as he'd been when he'd turned it on. Who was Meg? he thought. And why won't she at least tell me what her last name is? All the lists he had of store owners had Mamie Steppe as the sole owner, with not a hint of any other employees. Not that that surprised him; after all, Mamie seemed like the sort of person who'd want to look more important than she really was – but it was a little frustrating.

Well, more than a little, he conceded. What he really wanted to do was tear his hair out. He would have, too, but he knew (from more than one source) that his hair was one of the things girls loved most about him. So it got to stay.

What he needed was a female perspective. Naturally, he called his mother.

"Darling!" Jillian chirped into the phone. "I haven't heard from you in ages!"

"I talked to you three days ago, Mom. Can you think of a reason why a girl wouldn't tell me what her last name was?"

"I can see we're through with the formalities." Her voice was dry. "Are you talking literally or metaphorically? About the girl, I mean."

Harvard winced. "Literally."

He could almost hear his mother's smug smile across the miles between them. "Do you mean to tell me you've finally met a girl that can withstand your charms? I think I like her already."

"You would. She refused to go out with me the first time I asked her because she thought I might be a murderer."

Jillian laughed in delight. "Now I _know_ I like her. When can I meet her?"

A picture of Meg smiling at him from across the table, a few strands of hair framing her face, popped into Harvard's mind. "Have I ever brought a girl home to meet you?" he asked. "But you're right; I think you would like her." He cleared his throat, sure that his mother would think he'd just admitted to something that he didn't. "She won't tell me her last name, and I can't figure out what it is."

Jillian was quiet for a second. "You must have talked to her," she said, her voice gently reproving. "Think about what she said. She must have given you some clues, whether she knew it or not."

That brought Harvard up short. "She talked about her mother's death," he said slowly. "About how it happened a year or so ago . . . "

"Well, that's not much to go on, I'm afraid."

"Thanks, Mom. Gotta go." He snapped his phone closed and grabbed for his computer again. A year ago. Hadn't it been around that time that that woman, a shop owner, had died outside her store? It couldn't be the same woman, could it?

Ten minutes later he had his answer.

The article he read was short but had all the necessary facts – including a picture of one Meg Bailey standing in the doorway of The Glass Slipper and looking tired and worn.

Harvard stared at the photo. He didn't know what to do next.

Sure, now that he had her full name he could find out where she lived. He could even send flowers to her house to show her that he was smarter than she'd thought.

But somehow that didn't seem right. After all, just because he knew her last name didn't mean that she wanted him to know it.

No, the best thing to do, he decided, was to win her trust so that she'd tell him willingly.

He didn't know why it was so important to him that she trust him, but it was.

He got to his feet wearily and glanced around the bedroom. He needed to be less of a slob, that was for sure. He threw his clothes in a bag to be sent to the laundry later, and bent over to pick up his shoes. He set them on the closet floor, lining them up as neatly as he could.

There was a row of black in the back, a row of casual next to it, and a row of tennis shoes in front of that.

And, in the very front, a long line of brown ones.

Author's note: Thanks for all your reviews! I was a little surprised (pleasantly so) that you're enjoying this. Tops on my thankful list is good comments!


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Charley was waiting in the parking lot when Meg got to work the next morning. He rapped on her window before she turned off the ignition and glared at her. "Well?" he demanded in a voice that was clear even through the closed window. "How'd it go last night?"

Meg shook her head and took her time gathering her things. "You didn't even wait for me to get out of the car," she said accusingly when she'd shoved the door into his legs. "And what's up with the interrogation? Don't you have anything better to do with your time?"

He grabbed her bag from her hand and slung it over his shoulder. "Not really. I thought I'd live vicariously for once, since I'm not the one with the exciting love life."

"What makes you think I do?" The look Charley shot her was incredulous. "I don't!" she cried, digging through her purse – still on his arm – for her keys. "Hold still."

Charley held it open for her impatiently. "Did he kiss you?"

Meg didn't think that deserved a response, but when she had a hard time fitting the key in the lock he smirked at her. "I see."

Why couldn't I have befriended a puppy when I was little? Meg asked herself crossly. Puppies don't talk. "You don't _see_ anything, because nothing happened. I went out to dinner with a guy. It was pleasant. The food was decent. I'll probably never see him again."

Once she'd wrenched the door open Meg ducked under Charley's arm and hung her coat on its hook in the corner. "Don't you want to see him again?" he asked, glancing at himself in the mirror that Brittany'd made Meg install months before. He squinted at his reflection for a second before jerking away in horror. "Is that a grey hair?" he gasped in horror. "I'm not old enough to go grey!"

Meg smirked at him and started flipping on lights. "Look again. The lighting in that corner isn't the best." She should know – every time Brittany used this particular mirror she applied more makeup to her already caked face.

Charley didn't say anything for a while, and Meg busied herself with getting the store ready for the day. "That was a close one," he muttered as he made his way into the shop's main section. "I thought I was losing my mind there for a second."

The shoes she'd placed on the top shelf the night before had slipped, and Meg stood on her toes to shove them back into place. "It's okay to get a few grey hairs, you know," she told him over her shoulder. "It's not like we're teenagers anymore; it's a sign of maturity."

"You only say that because you're blonde, and the grey ones don't show up as well." He came up behind her and inspected her head. "I can see four if I look close enough. When are you going to start dyeing them?"

She brushed his hand away irritably. "Will you stop it with the hair? I'm fine with the way it looks. Go next door and bother your own employees."

"Oh, did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning? Or did you get no action last night, and now you're grumpy because Mr. Tall, Dark, and Available didn't show his affections?"

"Get out, Charley. Don't come back until you can think of something intelligent to say."

Charley just smirked at her. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

Meg nearly threw a shoe (with a particularly pointy heel) at the back of his head.

The mall was quiet when she opened the front gate, and once again the Steppes were nowhere in sight. Meg wondered idly if Mamie was still tied up with her weekend plans, and secretly hoped so. Brittany would hardly deign to come in to work if her mother was gone. It might be a good day after all.

She was on her toes, trying to adjust the top shelf _again_ and cursing the fact that she was so short and was forced to work for a bunch of Amazonian women when a hand reached over her head and calmly rearranged the row of pumps. "Charley," she said testily without looking at her helper, "I appreciate it, but – "

"Who's Charley?"

Meg whirled around and stared up at Harvard. He gazed back at her with a strange expression on his face – almost looking like he'd been caught off guard somehow. "What? What are you doing here? Don't tell me you need another pair of shoes."

Harvard cracked a small smile. "Maybe it's the store," he mused, glancing back at the neon walls speculatively. "You were perfectly friendly and non-confrontational last night when we were away from this place."

Her cheeks reddened. "I'm sorry," she said with a sigh. "You surprised me, and I kind of forgot my manners."

"Evidently." She would have sworn he was laughing at her, but his smile never got any bigger. "Who's Charley?"

"He owns the dress shop next door."

This answer didn't seem to be what Harvard wanted to hear, but he just nodded. "I came to give you my number," he said, handing her a card. "For when my shoes come in."

"Anxious?"

For a second Meg thought he wasn't going to answer her. Then, without warning, he grinned at her. "I am, but not for the reason you're thinking. Thanks for coming to dinner with me last night, by the way. It was nice to eat with someone for a change."

And then he was gone.

The next morning, again shortly after she'd cranked the gate up, he was back – this time with a cup of hot chocolate. "It's cold out," was all he said. "I thought you might enjoy it."

Two days later he popped his head in just as Mamie's irritated voice squeaked through the back room. "You'll never catch Harvard if you don't come to the mall!" she cried. "Really, Brittany. What were you thinking?"

This was the first time Meg had seen her employer in almost a week, and her shoulders slumped at the thought of all the extra work she'd inevitably be given. She shook her head silently in Harvard's direction. He got the hint, as well as a disgruntled look on his face, and disappeared around the corner just as Mamie swept in, followed by a sulky Brittany.

"Meg Bailey! Stop staring at the customers. You're scaring them away. And get to work. I don't pay you to stand around and look like an idiot."

Meg had heard these same words more times than she could count, but this time Mamie sounded almost distracted – like she had too many other things battering at her small brain and was only repeating the phrases out of a sense of duty. Whitney slipped behind the cash register and shrugged when Meg glanced at her with raised eyebrows.

"Meg Bailey! Pay attention when I'm talking to you! The gentleman with the new sign should be here in an hour or so. See that he installs it correctly this time. I have an appointment with my lawyer and won't be back until later; I expect the sign to be hanging in place when I get back."

A lawyer? What was Mamie doing with a lawyer? Maybe she was going to marry one. Meg stifled a smirk at the idea of the vilest woman in existence tying herself to a snake.

Mamie turned around, ordered Brittany to stay there until she got back, and glided away without a second glance.

Brittany sank onto a stool and glowered at Meg. "Stop looking so pleased with yourself," she snapped. "And go get me something with caffeine in it. It's too early to be awake."

Whitney hid her smile behind her hand and walked Meg to the front. "You have a box in the back," she murmured, glancing back at her sister. "I thought you might want to let your customer know so he doesn't come in today." Her eyebrow fluttered in an almost-wink. "I'd hate for you to be caught in an uncomfortable situation."

Meg had to think for a second before she realized Whitney was referring to Harvard and his brown shoes. "Thanks," she whispered. "I'll call him while I'm waiting."

The line in front of Brittany's preferred coffee spot was longer than usual, and Meg's fingers hesitated over her cell phone. It'd be so much easier to simply send him a text, she thought, knowing she was being a wimp. Why was it so hard to just call the man?

_This is Meg_, she typed. _Your shoes are in, but don't come for them today. Steppe #1 will be there._

She'd barely had time to flip it closed before her phone pinged with an incoming message. _Meg who?_

Rolling her eyes, she shuffled forward in line and thought about her answer for a second. _Meg from the shoe shop. How many Megs do you know?_

_Just the one. Do you usually need coffee in the morning? I'd pegged you as more of a hot chocolate girl._

Meg's head flew up and she looked around the food court. There were a fair amount of people milling about in front of the coffee shop (mostly mall employees that she recognized), but she couldn't see Harvard anywhere. _Where are you?_

She was still looking around when her phone rang, and she answered it without looking at it. "Hello?"

"The line's moving. You should think about stepping forward or that lady behind you'll blow a gasket. You're in the way of her morning fix."

"Harvard Kingston!" she hissed. "What do you think you're doing? Are you spying on me?"

He laughed quietly. "No, I'm in the security office. I headed here after I left you. Sorry about that, by the way. I have this thing about being chased by mad, obsessive women."

"Chicken." She smiled to herself. It was nice to know that Harvard was human after all. "I'm sure, deep down, that Brittany's a very nice person. I just haven't dug deep enough to see it yet."

"I'm not a professional spelunker. Now, about my shoes. Can I take you to dinner tonight for the transfer?"

What was it about Harvard that made him think he needed to feed her? She shook her head, and before she could get a word out he said, "Why not?"

"I already have plans. Can you come by tomorrow night, after closing? They always leave that to me."

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. "Can I at least take you to lunch this afternoon?"

Meg ran a hand over her ponytail. "I don't get lunch breaks," she explained. "Mamie doesn't think I need them."

This time the pause was longer – and tenser. "What you're saying is that she can make you stay while her daughters shop and gossip."

"It's not entirely like that," Meg protested, thinking of Whitney. "Someone has to stay there, and we haven't hired anyone else since they took over the shop."

This statement seemed to go completely by Harvard. "So the Steppes make you open in the morning, close at night, and stay through lunch." He sounded like he needed to say the words out loud to understand them. "No wonder you're so thin."

Meg stepped up behind the counter and smiled weakly at the woman on the other side who was waiting to take her order. "Not now, Harvard. I've got to go. I'll see you tomorrow night."

She was relatively sure that he wasn't used to being cut off like that.

*** *** ***

The smell of books enveloped Meg when she walked with Charley into Barnes & Noble that evening, heading straight for the romance section. "People are going to start to think that we're romance novel junkies," Meg noted. "Do you have something you need to tell me?"

Charley shot her a withering look and plopped down next to her. "Do you?"

Not this again, Meg thought. "No."

"Then neither do I."

They glared at each other for a second before Charley sighed and leaned his head back against the seat cushion. "I hate romance novels," he told the ceiling. "Girls read them like mad and then get the idea that real men act like the ones in the books. How many guys do you know that can scoop a woman in his arms and carry her up three flights of stairs without throwing out his back?"

A vision of Harvard's forearms popped into Meg's head, and she was glad that Charley wasn't looking in her direction. "Not many, I guess. Could you do it?"

Charley tilted his head down to stare at her. "Do I look like I could?"

Meg eyed him critically. He was tall, but there wasn't a whole lot to him. "I don't know," she said doubtfully. "I might be able to take you down on a good day."

Charley just snorted. "You wish." He sat up and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Did you see Mamie at all today?"

The mention of Mamie's name was enough to curdle Meg's brain. "Yeah, she was in for a few minutes this morning. She made Brittany stay at the store all day while she went to a meeting with her lawyer." She smiled to herself as she remembered the glum look on Brittany's face when she'd left that night. Harvard had been a no-show all day. "Why do you ask?"

Charley's eyes were steady when he looked at her. "It seems that she's bought another shoe store," he said seriously. "And the previous owners, who thought they'd be able to stay until the end of the month, got their walking papers today. They have to be out by tomorrow night."

It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. "What do you mean, another shoe store?" she asked stupidly. "How many does she need? And how did you find out?"

A ghost of a smirk flitted across Charley's face. "My dad's good friends with Mamie's lawyer, and they had lunch together today. Dad called me a little while ago."

There were too many thoughts going through Meg's head to focus on just one, so after a brief, internal struggle she gave up. "I don't know what I'll do if she forces me to work somewhere else," she said. "I live and breathe The Glass Slipper. I can't leave now."

Charley shook his head. They'd had this discussion so many times over the past year that it was pointless to hash it all out again. "You know I'd love to have you work with me."

"You know I can't do that."

Ignoring his own advice, Charley glared at her. "And why not? With your mom gone you have no ties left to that place! Why do you insist that you do?"

She glared right back at him. "Because that shop is who I am."

"No, it's not. It's who you were."

Meg's glare lasted a few more seconds before she dropped her eyes to her lap and spoke quietly. "You're right. But I feel like if I leave, then I've lost a part of her. And admitted that Mamie is stronger than I am."

"Oh, honey." Charley slid onto the arm of her chair and pulled her head over to rest on his stomach. "It's just a piece of property. Your mom would understand. How can I get you to believe me?"

She slumped into him and thought about the slippers that were sitting in the window display. Those things, or a shallow representation of them, were what started the whole business. "I just can't," she said miserably. "I won't leave until Mamie puts us out of business, and then I'll take you up on your offer. What would I do without you, Charley?" she asked, hugging him around the waist. "You're too good for the likes of me."

Charley sighed in frustration but kept his thoughts to himself. "I know I am," he said, poking her side. "I'm too good for myself."

*** *** ***

For the first time since she'd taken ownership of the shop, Mamie was waiting inside when Meg came in the next morning.

This couldn't be good, Meg thought wretchedly.

"Meg Bailey. So good of you to come to work today." Mamie's voice was even squeakier than usual. Meg suspected she was trying to sound sweet but didn't have the first idea how to do it.

"I'm usually here this early," Meg reminded her wearily. "No one else gets out of bed early enough to unlock the gate."

Eyes flashing, Mamie took a step toward her. Meg backpedalled rapidly, stopping only when her spine hit a shelf.

"I'll let that go for now," Mamie said, her mouth stretching across her face so that her canines showed, "because I'm in a good mood. I trust you heard about my new acquisition."

Nodding dully, Meg reached behind her to shift a pair of pointy-toed heels away from her back. She pitied the person who'd end up wearing them; they'd most likely gouge a hole in the first thing they touched.

"Good. After you close for the night, you are to go to the new property and clean it from top to bottom. I want it ready by seven tomorrow morning."

Meg opened her mouth to ask who'd be working there, but her vocal cords had gone on strike for the moment. Mamie watched her clinically. "You will, of course, report back here tomorrow morning. As much as I'd love to ship you away from my store, my lawyer says you have to work at this particular location to meet the agreement I made with your father."

Meg's breath came out in an audible whoosh and she rested her head on the shelf behind her. She wondered if it would be sacrilegious to pray that Mamie would take up residence at another shoe store. "Who's going to be the manager over there?" she asked, staring up at the ceiling.

Mamie moved toward the gate and stared at Meg pointedly, tapping her foot. "Elsie. Open the door. I want to make sure everything's being cleared out."

"Elsie?" Meg stopped in her tracks and stared in horror at her employer. "You're letting Elsie Maverick take care of your business?"

Mamie's eyes narrowed even further. "Yes, I am. She and I go way back."

Meg knew that. She also knew that there wasn't enough sense in Elsie's head to wet a noodle. "I hope she does well," she said, and bent over to lift the gate.

Mamie watched her struggle for a few seconds before letting out an irritated sound and pushing her away with one foot. "Can't you do anything right the first time?" she snapped, and threw the gate up.

As soon as it hit the ceiling there was a loud crash, and the next thing Meg knew the sign that had been installed only a day before was on the ground in front of them. It was in too many pieces to count.

Mamie said several very unladylike words and kicked at a particularly large piece. It skidded across the floor and hit the opposite wall, leaving a brown trail in its wake. "Get that cleaned up," she barked in Meg's direction. "You'll be paying for this one, too. How hard is it to make sure that a simple sign is installed correctly?"

They both looked up at the old sign, still firmly attached to the front of the shop, and Mamie shuddered. "Order a new one," she said. "And don't forget – I expect you to clean the new store so thoroughly that the Queen herself wouldn't find fault with it." Then she sniffed once, glanced back up at the sign, and stomped away.

The funny thing, Meg decided later that afternoon, was that Mamie truly believed that it was her fault the sign wouldn't stay firmly nailed to the wall. Maybe that was the real reason she wasn't insisting that Meg move on to the new store – she was afraid Meg would increase her hex on The Glass Slipper until the whole place spontaneously combusted.

As long as Mamie was the one that imploded, it wasn't a bad idea. Maybe she'd look into getting an evil eye in her spare time.

*** *** ***

Brittany finally made an appearance ten minutes before closing. "Where's Mother?" she asked irritably.

Meg, who'd been restocking a shelf of sandals that a toddler had pulled down, shrugged without glancing at her. "Beats me," she said. "She didn't say when she'd be back from the new place."

The scowl on Brittany's face would have aged cheese instantly. "Well, she'd better get here soon because – "

"Who had better get here soon? Meg Bailey, what do you think you're doing?"

Meg shoved the last sandal on the shelf and sat back on her heels. "Repairing a three-year-old's damage."

Mamie waved her hand dismissively. "I wonder if I can ban those creatures from coming in here," she said, half to herself. "I'm getting tired of picking up after them."

Meg was pretty sure it had been six months, at least, since Mamie had touched a shoe that she didn't already own. "You'll lose a lot of valuable customers that way," she told her mildly. "Of course, it's up to you."

"Mother, stop talking to her. I heard something interesting this afternoon." Brittany's eyes were calculating. "I was going on my normal rounds, trying to see if _anyone_ had put out something new, when I ran into a bunch of people whispering together in the atrium, so I hid behind the elevator."

From the corner of her eye Meg saw Whitney sneak in. She took one look at her family and rolled her eyes. Meg knew just how she felt.

"What were they talking about?"

Pausing for greater effect, Brittany took a deep breath. "They seemed worried that you're trying to take over the mall."

A startled bark of laughter popped out of Whitney's mouth, but she promptly turned it into a cough when Mamie glared at her.

"I'm not trying to take over the mall," she said huffily. "Just because I happen to own two respectable shoe stores doesn't mean anything." She stopped to think for a moment. Meg could have sworn she saw something crafty in her expression, but it was gone so quickly she was sure she'd imagined it. "Now, what did those old biddies say, exactly? Were they trying to plot my ruin?"

Brittany's eyes narrowed. "Actually, they were trying to think of a way to get us out of here so Meg could take over. Like that isn't the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard." She sniffed and turned her head, pausing when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She ran her tongue over her teeth and smiled at herself. "Pretty as a picture."

"Of course you are, darling. It seems we have some rumors to quell."

"Why don't you hold a block party?"

Three pairs of surprised eyes turned in Whitney's direction. "Did you say something, Whitney?" Mamie sounded shocked.

Whitney cleared her throat and flicked her gaze at Meg worriedly. "A block party. You know, like the kind they have in the summertime. You could invite all the shop owners, and maybe even their employees, feed them a hot dog or something, and they could see that you're just like everyone else."

Mamie pursed her lips. "It would work better if I _was_ like everyone else. I could act, though. I did take all those drama classes back in high school."

Whitney rolled her eyes again but kept her mouth shut.

"I'll do it." Mamie's voice was decisive. "Meg Bailey, Whitney, take care of the details. I want this thing to happen next Friday, after the mall's closed."

"But that's only eight days away!"

Mamie stared at her daughter pointedly. "Next week, Whitney. I don't want to hear any excuses. Come, Brittany. Bring your sister with you. We have a lot to discuss. What are you going to wear to impress Harvard at the party?"

Whitney mouthed a "sorry" to Meg as her sister pushed her out the back door, and glanced at the phone with raised eyebrows. Sighing, Meg nodded, wondering how two people who'd scarcely exchanged twenty words in a year could have had an entire conversation without saying a single one.

The door had scarcely shut behind Mamie and her daughters before Harvard sauntered in. "Hello, Meg."

Meg's mind was still stuck on the logistics of planning a block party in mid-April in Michigan – in only eight days. "Hey," she said absently. "Are you here for your shoes?"

Shooting that knee-melting smile down at her, Harvard leaned against the counter. Meg only spared him a glance before dodging around him and moving toward the window display. It was rather disheartening that he'd gone back to that smile, she thought. She much preferred the genuine grin. He'd probably be offended if she told him that, though.

"Here you go." She handed over the box and watched as he flipped open the lid and looked inside. "What do you think?"

He shrugged and closed the box. "Looks good to me. What do you say about dinner?" His smile intensified. The heat radiating from his charm could have fried an egg on the pavement outside. And it was only forty degrees.

It was hard to resist the urge to roll her eyes, but Meg somehow managed it. "I can't," she said a little impatiently, and regretted her tone as soon as she'd said the words. After all, it wasn't like Harvard knew what her schedule was like. "I have to go clear out the new shoe store for Mamie tonight."

Harvard's expression froze. "What?"

Had the man never been turned down by anyone but her? "I can't," she said, more slowly this time in case he was having an old-man moment and couldn't keep up with the conversation. "I have to work."

"Right." He cleared his throat and glanced around the immaculate shop. "Is this some sort of way to politely tell me to get lost?"

"Harvard. I have to clean the store Mamie bought before the new manager shows up in the morning."

The frown lines around his mouth eased up a bit. "Why didn't you say that in the beginning?"

This time her eyes did roll. "I did. Now, if you don't mind, I need to get going. I have no idea what state that place is in."

Harvard was gone when she emerged from the back with a bucket of cleaning supplies, and she sighed. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or not that he'd taken off.

The mall was silent save for the click of her shoes on the floor and the distant whine of what she could only assume was the heater kicking on. Evidently it stayed on all night. She gave a mental shrug. The whining steadily got louder and higher the farther she walked, and she shivered. This was a little eerie.

"Hey, wait up!"

Nearly jumping out of her shoes, Meg shrieked and dropped her bucket. She reached down and snatched up the first thing her hand landed on, firing it off blindly in the direction of the voice. There was a startled yelp, a sound that reminded her strangely of skidding tires, and the next thing she knew the Windex had been wrenched out of her grasp.

"What do you think you're doing?" Harvard's voice was incredulous. "Were you trying to blind me?"

Meg sat heavily down on the wall around the fountain. "I was defending myself," she said weakly, squeezing her eyes closed and taking a deep breath in an effort to calm her racing heart. "You snuck up on me."

Harvard didn't say anything for a long time. "You're right," he said, gentler this time. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to . . . "

The fact that the great (according to Brittany, anyway) Harvard Kingston didn't know what to say told Meg a great deal. "It was my fault," she said ruefully, getting to her feet. "I should have looked before I assumed I was being attacked by a rogue . . . " She cleared her throat and started to collect her scattered things. "Anyway. What exactly are you doing here? Shouldn't you be on your way home?"

"Shouldn't you?" He handed her the ammonia she'd missed (thank goodness she hadn't sprayed that in his face) and gestured toward the machine behind him. "I was trying to offer you a ride. It's a long way between your shop and the new one, and I thought I'd offer you my assistance."

Meg blinked up at him. Was he trying to be nice to her? "Oh. Um, thanks. I didn't know the mall owned a – what is that, exactly?"

Harvard patted the cart fondly. "It's a glorified golf cart, really. Dad uses it when he comes here so he can get around faster. He says it makes him feel cool."

Meg shook her head in wonder. She'd never understand men.

"Come on, hop in. I promise not to sneak up on you again."

It took a surprisingly short time to get to the new shop (she'd have to ask what they were going to call it; there was always a chance Mamie would give up on renaming The Glass Slipper and focus on stamping her name somewhere else). Meg smiled at Harvard gratefully. "Thanks," she said as she slid out of the seat. "And I'm sorry I attacked you with my Windex."

Harvard followed her in and waited while she fumbled for the light switch. They stood silently and looked at the empty room. "Well, at least there's no furniture to move," he said finally. "That would make our job a lot harder."

Meg kicked at a dust bunny the size of a Labrador and watched as it skittered across the ground. "It would." She hadn't missed the fact that he'd said _our_ job instead of _your_ job, and she wondered if he knew he'd slipped up.

Sighing, Harvard rolled up his sleeves and grabbed her bucket. "Well, let's get going. If we're lucky we'll get done before the mall opens tomorrow."

*** *** ***

Harvard wasn't sure how he'd managed to phrase things so that Meg didn't object to his help, but he wasn't going to think about it too closely in case she changed her mind. At least she hadn't sprayed him in the face with another cleaning product. He'd have to make sure they stocked up on non-abrasive solutions from now on.

He watched her as she worked, often having to stand on her toes to swipe at grubby spots on the wall that were ridiculously low. "What's so funny?" she asked crossly the third time he snickered.

"Nothing." His tone was innocent, but he knew his eyes were twinkling. They did that when he was trying to be cute.

She just shook her head and moved to a different section of wall. What had the previous owners been doing in here? He was of half a mind to track them down and make them pay to have the place professionally cleaned – or call them in as reinforcements. He hated cleaning.

If he tried really hard, he was sure he could ignore the fact that he was cleaning of his own free will and choice right now, thereby making his last thought a little ridiculous.

He just didn't want to think about why he was doing it.

Besides, if he left now he wouldn't have a reason to watch Meg's ponytail bounce as she danced to the music on her iPod.

He wondered what she was listening to. Probably something old and classy, like the kind of music they played in that dress shop next to hers. "What are you listening to?" he asked when he was sick of thinking about it. "It must be happy."

She blushed and pulled it from her pocket. "I can't believe how rude I'm being," she said, and yanked the headphones from her ears. "Let me run back to my shop and grab my docking station. Then you won't have to amuse yourself." She grabbed the key to the cart from the corner and was off before he could tell her that he didn't need anything else to 'amuse' him; he was having a perfectly entertaining time watching her.

Her cell phone rang when she'd been gone a few minutes or so, and Harvard answered it with a smirk. "Meg's phone."

There was a long moment of silence. "Who's this?" demanded a male voice.

"Harvard Kingston. Who's this?"

Another long pause. "No, really. Who is this?"

Harvard threw his rag toward the bucket, watching as it flopped over the rim. "Yes, really. This is Harvard Kingston. Meg had to run back to the shop for a second, and I answered her phone."

"Well, duh. I hope you didn't think you were answering your own, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Obnoxious"

This guy was terribly cheeky. Wait a second – hadn't the phone been playing the same song the first time he'd spoken to Meg, back when he'd purchased his initial pair of shoes? "Is this her boyfriend?" he demanded. He didn't like the way his own voice sounded.

The man let out an amused chuckle. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

He would, actually, but the twat on the phone hardly needed to know that. "If you'll give me your name I'll be glad to tell her you called," he said curtly, and kicked at the washrag. It just swung crazily for a second before coming to a limp halt.

Chuckling again (did Harvard imagine it, or was the guy _smirking_ at him? It was hard to tell over a cell phone), he said, "This is Charley. Tell her that if she finishes too late to go home she's welcome to crash at Charley's. She can even use my super-swell bathroom, as long as she hangs up the towels."

Harvard was still staring stupidly at the phone when the cart's whining announced Meg's return. He threw it hastily back in the corner and tried to look natural.

Meg smiled apologetically at him when she ran in. "Sorry it took me so long," she said, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. "My docking station seems to have disappeared. Brittany must have messed with the music again." She placed her iPod next to her phone.

His shoulders twitched in a weird kind of half-shrug. "No problem. You can listen, if you want."

When she looked at him pointedly, he smiled a little. "Or not." He let a few minutes pass before he cleared his throat and glanced sidelong at her. "Charley called while you were gone," he said as nonchalantly as he could. "He asked me to tell you that you could crash at his place if it got too late."

Meg didn't seem terribly surprised by this. "That was kind of him," she commented. "I may have to take him up on it; it's already past midnight, and I need to be back here early tomorrow."

"He said something about his bathroom. Evidently you're welcome to use it, as long as you pick up after yourself."

Her eyes crinkled when she laughed. "He said that, did he? That was even kinder. He must want something."

Harvard dropped the subject after that.

The store was finally clean just after three in the morning, and Meg and Harvard stood in the middle of the empty room and wearily surveyed their handiwork. "I never thanked you for your help," Meg said, turning to look up at him. "I'd have been here all night without you."

Harvard smiled at her tiredly and rolled his shoulders. It had been a long, long time since he'd worked this hard on a cleaning project. "My pleasure. I would have felt bad leaving you here all alone."

"Well, it was still very nice of you. I owe you one."

This was as good as an open invitation. "You could tell me your last name," he said. "I mean, we've just spent six hours all by ourselves in a deserted mall. I hope you still don't think I'm going to come at you with a weed whacker."

Meg laughed and tightened her ponytail. "You have a point. It's Bailey."

Harvard smiled to himself in satisfaction. "Meg Bailey. Do you have a middle name, or am I going to have to clean another property before you'll tell me?"

She made a face and moved toward the light switch. "I don't, actually. My mother said I'd have three names when I got married, and that was enough for any girl."

"That was awfully presumptuous of her. What if you hated your husband's name? Or if you never got married?"

"By the time I was old enough to think of those arguments it was a little late."

"Your dad could have said something."

Harvard knew he'd said something wrong when Meg's eyes flashed. She didn't say anything until the store was dark and they'd made their way to the cart out in the corridor. "My dad doesn't do unpleasant." Her voice was curt, and Harvard knew enough to leave the subject alone.

He watched as she climbed out of the cart in front of her shop. She rested her hand on his arm momentarily, and with a murmured "thanks" she disappeared into The Glass Slipper, sliding the gate closed behind her.

Harvard sat in that cart for a while, staring at the window display. He wasn't a shoe connoisseur by any stretch of the imagination, but there was something about the ones in that display . . . Kind of like Meg, he thought. Different. Enchanting. And intriguing.

The next morning a gift bag was waiting for him when he got to the security offices for his morning rounds. He would have ignored it like he had all the others girls had sent him, but Kyle, who'd been the one to send him in Meg's direction in the first place, thrust it in his hands.

"Open it up, man. It's safe. I know the girl that brought it."

Harvard nearly groaned. Kyle knew a lot of women. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Reaching inside, he pulled out a full bottle of Windex. He laughed when he read the note, tied with a silver bow to the trigger.

_For self defense. Thanks again for your help._

_ M. Bailey_

**Author's note**: I hope Harvard's growing on you! He's a lot of fun to write, although (secretly, of course) I have a soft spot for Charley. I'm almost caught up with myself so I don't know how long this chapter a week will last, but I'll do my best. Thanks for all your reviews – I love to read your thoughts!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Charley had one of the best showers in the world.

As the hot water rinsed the shampoo out of her hair, Meg thought about Harvard and smiled to herself, getting a mouthful of suds in the process.

Okay, maybe she shouldn't think about Harvard while using cleaning products. It was proving to be a bad idea.

Of course, giving him that bottle of Windex might have been a bad idea, too. She had the sinking suspicion that she was leading him on, since she wasn't really in any position to . . . _date_ him.

Assuming, of course, that that was what he was after. And if he was any other normal, too-good-looking-for-his-own-good male, she'd be all starry-eyed and . . . well. She wouldn't be accountable for her own actions.

But he wasn't. And it wasn't fair to let him think that there was any point in being nice to her.

Charley didn't appear until she was dressed, running a comb through her wet hair, and trying to convince herself that Harvard Kingston didn't mean a thing to her – or she to him. Charley pushed open the door and stared at her expectantly.

"I could have been naked!" she scolded. "Shouldn't you have knocked first?"

"This is my bathroom," he reminded her, and then he grinned. "Besides, how much can things have changed since the last time I saw you naked?"

"Charley, I was five."

"So you're saying -- not much." He waggled his eyebrows at her and laughed when she threw a towel at him. "How was the great clean-up date last night?"

"It wasn't a date."

Raising his eyes heavenward, Charley tossed the towel in the hamper so, she was sure, he'd remember to give it back to her before she left for the day. "Whatever. How'd the non-date-but-yet-I'm-alone-with-a-man-for-hours go?"

Meg averted her eyes and stared at her reflection. In this light her skin actually looked like it had some color to it. "It was fine," she said, knowing he wouldn't let her get away with that kind of response. "Thanks for letting me crash here last night. I needed the extra sleep."

Charley smirked at her. "Is that so? Did Harvard keep you up until the wee hours of the morning?"

Three o'clock _was_ pretty 'wee hours of the morning', but . . . "No, it just took a while to get everything settled." She glanced at him surreptitiously. "What did you say to him last night? He was all weird when he told me you'd called."

Shrugging, Charley plopped down on the toilet lid and watched her. "Nothing much. He might have gotten the impression that we were seeing each other."

"Charley . . . " Meg sighed. "Enough people already assume we're dating simply because we do everything together. Why add one more?"

"You're upset because you want him to like you." Charley rested his ankle on his knee and nodded knowingly. "He's quite the catch, from what I can see. The fact that he was willing to clean for you should say a lot."

"I don't have time for a relationship." Meg's reply was quick and automatic. "And anyway, I can't see him again. Can you imagine what Mamie would do to me if she found out I'd been to dinner with Brittany's soul mate – and that he'd voluntarily scrubbed her new property with me? She'd kill me for sure."

He snorted. "Killing would be the least of it. She'd probably start by ripping your fingernails off and gluing them to her own fingers to make the rest of us squirm. Have you seen the nails on that woman? Under all those years of acrylics is a fingernail graveyard." He paused, unconsciously tapping his own fingers against his chin. "So you don't care if Harvard thinks you're unavailable."

Meg opened her mouth to say that there was no reason for her to mind, or even for Harvard to wonder about it, but for some reason she couldn't get the words out.

"Ha!" Charley said triumphantly. "You do care. Well, you'll just have to tell him that you and I are friends, nothing more, and that he can take you to all the fancy dinners and parties he wants. As long as he does it behind Mamie's back."

"Are you suggesting that I sneak around and lie, Charley?" She looked at him sternly, and after a few seconds he squirmed and avoided her gaze. "Don't you remember the last time I lied? I was so horrible at it that I got grounded before Mom and Dad even knew what I was lying about."

"That was back in the sixth grade," Charley protested. "And it's not like you're exactly telling a fib. Mamie's not likely to ask you if you're seeing Harvard."

He had a point, Meg thought. Mamie was so sure Harvard would end up with Brittany that she couldn't see anything else. Maybe that was the real problem – Mamie was unable to think outside her own version of reality. "It doesn't matter," she said, a final note in her voice. "I already told you. I don't have time, and even if I did, I don't dare tick off Mamie."

Charley sat in silence while she dried her hair (using his hair dryer, which he tactfully didn't mention) and applied her mascara. "I just think you're making this a lot harder than it has to be," he said as he followed her to the back door. "I think Harvard likes you. He just hasn't accepted it yet."

"If that's the case, it doesn't matter whether or not I ever see him again." Meg reached up to kiss his cheek. "Thanks again for letting me crash on your couch. And for letting me keep a spare change of clothes in your office."

Sighing heavily, Charley ruffled her hair, not caring that he'd just mussed her ponytail. "Any time. Oh, and Meg?"

"Yeah?"

"Be nice to Whitney today. She looks even less thrilled to be here than you do." With that Charley turned and went back inside, leaving Meg in the parking lot to watch as Whitney paid the cab driver and trudged toward the shop.

The two of them opened The Glass Slipper and sat at the counter, keeping an eye out for customers. "I had some ideas last night," Whitney said in her quiet voice, pulling several sheets of paper from her purse. "I didn't think you'd have time last night, and we only have a week, so . . . "

Meg let out an appreciative breath. "Thank goodness you're helping," she exclaimed, making Whitney turn bright red and hide her face. "I've never planned a party this big, and I had no idea where to start."

Staring at the pages intently, Whitney shrugged. "I've had to organize a few gatherings for my mother," she said. "I've learned what she likes and what she doesn't. You don't mind, do you? I mean about this." She gestured to her close-written notes. "Mamie told you to do it, and if you really want to – "

Laughing incredulously, Meg batted her hands away from the pages and started to read them. "Didn't you hear what I just said? I'm good at taking orders, not planning parties. Tell me what to do and I'll get it done. Even if I have to stay late to do it."

Whitney regarded her for a long time before she smiled hesitantly. "I can see why Harvard likes you," she said, and her smile turned into a grin. "Maybe you could convince him to man a kissing booth. I'm sure he'd love that – especially when Brittany buys all the tickets."

For some reason that didn't seem like such a good idea. "I don't know," she said, trying to think of a way to say no without hurting Whitney's fragile feelings. "I'm not sure he'd go for that."

"Who'd go for what?"

Harvard walked slowly toward them, hands stuck in his pockets. He looked rather pleased with himself. "Hey, Harvard. This is Whitney."

He shook her hand and flashed his smile at her. Whitney blushed and leaned unconsciously toward Meg. "Mamie told us to plan a block party for the mall tenants," Meg explained, "and Whitney thinks it'd be a good idea for you to run a kissing booth."

"You mean, people pay me to kiss them?" His eyebrows rose and he shook his head. "No thanks. The last thing I need is for a bunch of overly-excited girls to throw themselves at me. I got over that in high school."

Meg's eyes flashed. "I can't believe you just said that."

"If I was ever into it at all," he amended hastily. "Which I wasn't."

Meg's eyes traveled over his easy, self-assured stance. "Right."

"I'm not!"

"I still think it'd be a good idea," Whitney interrupted, looking over her pages of ideas. "I mean, besides Brittany, who else around here is madly in lust with you?"

Harvard's eyes flickered to Meg and back to focus on Whitney. "Beats me. I'd really rather not find out."

"Would you do it if each person only got one kiss?"

Harvard was shaking his head when the phone rang. Meg reached over and grabbed it before Whitney could. "Hello, The Glass Slipper."

"I thought this was a shoe store."

Meg leaned her head against her hand. From the sound of it, this was the same man who'd called incessantly a few weeks before. She'd nearly forgotten about him. "It is, sir. Are you calling for Marilyn again?"

"Marilyn who? I want Pam."

Taking a deep breath, Meg tried to be patient. After all, the poor guy probably had a hard time keeping things straight. He _was_ eighty. Make that ninety, she thought as she listened to him wheeze into the receiver. Eighty might be a very conservative estimate. "There isn't a Pam here, I'm afraid."

"Yes, there is! Pam Anderson! I saw her just yesterday, and she told me she got all her shoes at this store with her discount!"

Meg had a sneaking suspicion that he'd seen some sort of buxom nursing home-type candy striper and had developed a crush on her – or her assets. "Well, if you see Pamela Anderson again, tell her we're glad she frequents our shop," she told him kindly. Harvard snickered and grinned when she glared at him. "I'll be sure to give her the message if she comes in."

"_When_ she comes in, young lady. Good-bye." And he was gone.

Even Whitney was laughing when she replaced the receiver. "Pamela Anderson, huh?" she asked, her eyes lit up with amusement. "I didn't know you had an alias."

Scowling at her, Meg grabbed her notepad and scribbled the message on it. "Stop it, both of you," she scolded. "It's not that man's fault that he thinks he's friendly with a . . . with a . . . "

"Sex symbol?" Harvard was openly laughing now. "I guess it's good that I'm not in that category."

Meg wasn't sure what category he was talking about, but she didn't ask.

"So you won't l do the booth?" Whitney asked, disappointment seeping into her voice. For someone who'd rarely said three words together in the past year, Meg thought, she was being awfully persistent. Maybe Brittany wasn't the only Steppe sister after Harvard.

"Sorry, but no. I prefer to get my kisses the old fashioned way." He winked down at Meg, who blushed and then frowned back at him. He certainly wasn't making it easy for her to stick by her decision to send him packing.

Whitney glanced between the two of them and smiled slightly. "Okay, I guess I wouldn't want to either if I were in your position, Mr. Kingston."

Harvard's eyebrows shot up. "Please, call me Harvard. Mr. Kingston is my father. I'm just his lackey."

Meg tilted forward, her eyes crinkling with amusement. "You, a lackey? Can I get that in writing?"

"No, but you can have a date."

Meg froze, knowing she'd just outright flirted with him and hating herself for it. Why did it feel so natural to tease Harvard? "Are you giving it to me?"

Grinning, Harvard leaned even closer to her. She could see the chip in his front tooth. On him, unfortunately, it looked natural. "I am."

"I can't." She pushed back from the counter and looked away from him.

"You don't even know when it is." Harvard's voice was chiding.

"It doesn't matter," she said, sitting back on her stool and crossing her legs and then her arms. "I just can't."

"Meg, come on. Didn't you have a good time last night?"

An image of a Windex-sprayed Harvard appeared in her mind, and she smiled involuntarily.

"You did."

"I was smiling because I was remembering you with window cleaner streaming down your face. Besides, cleaning is hardly amusing."

"Then why won't you let me take you somewhere nice, so you can see how much fun you can have in a good setting? I promise I'll behave myself."

It would be nice, she thought wistfully. And she'd have no problem agreeing if it weren't for Mamie – and Brittany. "I just can't. Please don't ask me again." Harvard opened his mouth like he was going to say something she didn't want to hear, so she turned to Whitney, trying to ignore Harvard's flapping jaws. "I think I hear Dave at the back door," she said tightly. "I'll be back there for a while." She slid off her stool and almost ran through the store, knowing that Dave wasn't there with the delivery, and that she'd probably just hurt Harvard's feelings but was unable to do anything about it.

"Who's Dave?" she heard him ask before she closed the door behind her.

*** *** ***

Meg didn't see Harvard until the day of the party, and that was only across the parking lot as she carried yet another load of supplies to the food tent she and Whitney had set up that morning. He nodded once in her direction and continued on his way, leaving her to feel a strange sense of loss. She didn't want to think about why she felt that way – especially since it wouldn't change anything anyway.

"What's up with you?" Charley dumped his box of hot dogs on the table.

"What do you mean?" Meg tried to keep her voice cheerful, but from the way Charley was looking at her she knew she'd hadn't convinced him.

"Spill, Meg. You've been moping around all week. I'm tired of having a basset hound for a best friend."

"I'm fine." Meg refused to look him in the eye – just in case he wasn't joking about the basset hound thing.

Charley turned to Whitney, who was laying out buns and Coney sauce, and jerked his head in Meg's direction. "What happened last week?" he demanded, snagging a hot dog bun from her and shredding it for the seagull that had been staring dolefully at her since she'd first opened her box. "It has to be something big."

Eyes darting from Meg to Charley, Whitney swallowed and focused her attention on the table. "I – I – "

"Oh, leave Whitney alone," Meg snapped. "The only thing she can tell you is that I told Harvard to leave me alone, and now I'm feeling a little sorry about it."

Charley let out a low whistle. "I knew it was boy trouble," he said somberly. "You had that _look_. You know, like the one you get when your heart's breaking."

Meg snorted. "That's quite the exaggeration. My heart's perfectly fine."

"Besides," Whitney said, surprising the other two, "I think Harvard's got it worse. He doesn't know why she won't go out with him again, and she's been avoiding him like the plague ever since. What?" she asked, finally catching Charley's incredulous look. "It's true. Look at the poor guy."

Three sets of eyes turned toward Harvard, who was talking, somewhat heatedly, with Kyle. "Who's that guy?" Whitney asked, breaking the silence.

"Kyle. He's the head of security," Meg answered absently. She was more interested in the man standing next to him. Even from here he looked tired.

"He does," Charley said, squinting. "I wonder who he's been losing sleep over." He winked at Whitney, who giggled nervously.

It took Meg a second to realize that she'd spoken the last bit of her thoughts aloud. "He looked tired when we went out for dinner," she mused, ignoring Charley's pointed look. "I think he's just stressed, that's all. And this party of Mamie's can't have helped his security woes much."

"Meg Bailey!"

All three of them jumped at the sound of Mamie's voice. Charley pushed away from the table hastily, throwing his half-shredded bun at Meg. "That's my cue to get back to work. See you later tonight." He grinned at Whitney and jogged off.

"Meg Bailey! What are you doing?"

Slowly turning to face Mamie, Meg forced a smile on her face. It was ridiculously fake, but she knew Mamie would neither notice nor care. "Helping Whitney with the food," she told her (unnecessarily, she thought; it was fairly obvious what she was doing).

Mamie glared at her. Meg could almost see the thoughts come in and out of her head: _I'm sure she's up to something, but I can't figure out what it is. I'd better yell at her anyway, just in case_. "Go back in the store," she finally snapped. "It's almost closing time, and I want someone in there at all times during the party. Brittany will take over your duties."

Meg handed Whitney her box, and when Whitney opened her mouth to protest Meg shook her head almost imperceptibly. "I'll be in the shop if you need me," she said quietly. "And that includes helping Brittany with her 'duties'." Whitney just rolled her eyes and sighed even as Brittany and Mamie gathered around her to gossip about Harvard.

The shop was blessedly quiet for the next several hours, save for the odd shopper that Charley ushered through the back door. "This is the best time to order," he whispered as the latest customer slipped out, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Mamie'll be outside until Harvard leaves, and Brittany has him cornered. Whatever you think about the guy, he's too polite to tell a woman to get lost."

"Thanks, Charley. I'm guessing you're trying to tell me that I'm not as nice as he is."

"Hey, I never said that. You have your reasons for not going out with him. I just think you should have shared them with him. Now he thinks you hate his guts."

Meg was pretty sure Charley was exaggerating a little there, but he was gone before she could make a retort.

Did Harvard really think she hated his guts?

She sure hoped not.

*** *** ***

The party finally wound down around one o'clock, and Meg was packing up the remnants of the feast, knowing that if she could swing it, she'd smuggle the food to the soup kitchen several blocks away without Mamie ever knowing.

"And this is our little home away from home." Brittany's shrill voice filled the empty store, and Meg shoved the box she'd been packing under the counter. It stuck out at an awkward angle, and she tried to position her body so that no one would notice it. All she managed to do was look even more obvious than the box did.

"I've been here before."

Meg froze at the sound of Harvard's bland voice. Why hadn't he already gone home?

"Hello, Meg."

Her eyes flew up to his only long enough to see his serious expression. He looked even more tired than he had before, if that were possible, and she had an insane urge to hug him. Heaven knew he needed it; he'd been with Brittany for the better part of three hours, if Charley had been right.

"Hello, Harvard."

"You two know each other?" Brittany sounded irritated.

"Only briefly." Meg winced as the words left her mouth, but she glanced back up at Harvard's now stony expression and shook her head slightly. If he said anything about their date, or any part of their dealings together, she could kiss her freedom goodbye.

"Yes," he said slowly. "I visited your store the day I arrived in Michigan. You were here; don't you remember?"

Brittany pressed a hand to her chest, covering a fair amount of skin that would have been better covered by her too-tiny tank top. (What was she doing, wearing that kind of top outside in April? Meg couldn't figure it out. She had to be freezing – literally.) "I remember," she cooed. "It was the day I bought the red dress, you know, the one with the sparkly bustier." She giggled and batted her eyes. "Oh, I guess you don't know yet. I got it for a special occasion."

If this was the way to win a man's heart, Meg thought drily, she'd gladly die an old maid.

Harvard glanced over at Meg and cleared his throat. "That's nice."

Meg rested her side against the cash register. "What's in the box, Meg?"

Trust Harvard to find the one thing in the entire place that she wanted to hide, Meg thought. It was probably too much to hope he'd notice the lack of screeching music instead. "It's just the leftovers," she said, her voice sounding as tired as he looked.

"You should just have thrown them away," Brittany said, inspecting her nails. "You're wasting your time on that. Wait 'til Mother hears about this."

"Hears about what?" The door banged open and Mamie strode in, cheeks rosy from the cold. With her red face and squeaky voice she could pass for a six-foot Elmo.

"The box Meg's been packing. She's got the food from the party in it."

The Steppes looked down at her, and Harvard cleared his throat again. If he kept this up, Meg thought, he'd lose the use of his vocal cords. Maybe he could give lessons to Mamie. And Brittany.

"I'm sure Miss Bailey has a reason," he said mildly. "I don't think she's the sort of person to laze around and waste time." He looked at her expectantly.

"I was going to take it to the soup kitchen." She was surprised by how steady her voice was.

Mamie and Brittany both made quacking noises in their throats. "That's a very generous thing to do," Harvard said smoothly. "It's very nice of you, Ms. Steppe, to let her do that. I'll be sure to tell my father about it when I talk to him next week."

Mamie opened and closed her mouth several times before plastering a grimace – was it supposed to resemble a smile? – on her face. "Of course, it was my idea in the first place," she said, ignoring the fact that not thirty seconds before she was ready to change Meg's status from employee to indentured servant.

"Then I'm sure you won't mind if I take this out to Meg's car for her, and see her on her way." The smile Harvard shot at Mamie was brilliant in its sneakiness. "I'm sure I'll see you all in the morning." With that, he bent over, grabbed the box, and waited for a flustered Meg to grab her coat and hold the door open for him.

"You didn't need to do that," she said as she unlocked the trunk. "But I appreciate it anyway."

Shrugging, he dropped the box in her car and dusted his hands on his trousers. "You looked like you needed a good night's sleep, and I was desperate for a way to shake off Brittany. I was pretty sure she wouldn't want to step foot in a place like a soup kitchen."

Meg had to smile at the way his thought processes worked. "You nailed her." She sighed as she noticed all the work that still needed to be done outside. "I'd better get started on the clean-up before I leave. Mamie and Brittany aren't likely to stick around to do it."

"What about the soup kitchen?"

"It's one thirty in the morning," she reminded him. "I really don't think they're open right now. I'll drop it off tomorrow on my way to work."

Harvard just grunted and walked with her to the side of the building, where Charley and Whitney were silently gathering trash. "I had no idea I had such messy tenants," he said without sounding surprised at all.

"At least the caterers took the tables and chairs with them." Charley grabbed an empty can and lobbed it toward a trash can at the other end of the parking lot. He groaned when it hit the edge and clattered to the ground. His crestfallen expression made Meg laugh.

"It's okay," she said, patting him on the back. "It's too dark out here to see anything properly."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he grumbled good-naturedly. "Come on, I'll help you tear down the tent and we can all get out of here."

Harvard was slowly dragging several garbage bags to the dumpster when Meg turned around to look. He didn't look particularly happy.

*** *** ***

Meg was in the middle of a very nice dream involving Elmo and a Mack truck when a distant thud made her eyes crack open and blink at the alarm clock. It must be too early to get up, she thought hazily. The heat hadn't clicked on yet.

But when the thudding continued a few moments later she knew she was either being robbed by a particularly inept burglar or there was someone at her door.

So she threw on her robe, grabbed the baseball bat from its hiding spot under her bed, and made her way down the hall to her front door.

The bat dropped to the floor when Whitney's face peered at her through the peephole.

When she threw open the door, Whitney just stood there, shivering in her too-thin (but designer) coat. "Whitney?" Meg asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and wondering if she was having a very realistic dream. "Are you okay?"

Whitney's eyes were flashing when she finally looked up. "I think I want to kill my mother."

Meg stepped back wordlessly and held the door open for her. "I have a mug of hot chocolate in the kitchen with your name on it," she said. "Come on in."

Ten minutes later they were leaning back on the couch in the family room, several quilts tucked around their laps. "So what happened?" Meg asked. She couldn't ever remember feeling this curious about something – well, there was the time she'd kissed Charley back in college, but that was hardly the same thing.

Whitney took a deep, deep breath. When she expelled it her eyes were even fiercer than they'd been when she'd stood on the front porch. "When we got home tonight Mamie and Brittany started scheming."

"That's hardly unusual." Meg sipped her hot chocolate and made a face. Too much peppermint, she decided. Maybe she should have measured before she dumped it in.

"Well, yeah. But this time they were scheming about getting on Harvard's good side. By letting him think that the whole party – planning, executing, even the idea – was Brittany's."

Meg shook her head. "He wouldn't believe that. He was there when you and I were talking about it, remember?"

"I know that, but it doesn't really matter what Harvard thinks. The fact that my own _mother_ was willing to sell me out to make her precious Brittany look better than she ever could think about being made me so mad I just left." Whitney sat fuming for a few minutes while Meg finished her hot chocolate. She'd never expected the quiet, unassuming Whitney to crack like this.

"I'm sorry I arrived on your doorstep at three in the morning." Whitney's voice was quiet again when she broke the silence. "But I couldn't think of anywhere else to go, and I couldn't really pay the cab driver to sit in your driveway for three hours."

"You came in a cab?" Out of all the things Whitney'd just said, that's the one that surprised Meg the most.

Whitney blinked at her. "Well, yeah. It's not like I could drive."

"Why not? Did Mamie take away your keys?"

"She didn't have to. I can't drive." Her tone was matter-of-fact, like she'd had a lot of practice saying this over the years, but her face was pink.

Meg carefully leaned over and placed her mug on the coffee table. Then she folded her hands on her lap and studied Whitney for a long time. The other girl's shoulders straightened under the scrutiny, and she looked back steadily. Meg didn't get the impression that Whitney was daring her to look away first, but was, for the first time, letting Meg see her properly. And the Whitney that Meg saw was different. She couldn't exactly put her finger on it, but something significant had changed.

"I have a spare room. You're welcome to stay here for as long as you want."

Whitney inhaled quickly. "Really? I wouldn't be under your feet?"

Laughing quietly, Meg waved a hand around the apartment. "I have a lot of room here," she said. "Besides, I'm hardly here anyway. I spend most of my time – "

"At the store. I know." Whitney grinned and threw the quilt off her legs. "I happen to have a suitcase outside your front door," she said. "I was hoping I could at least crash here for the night. Thanks, Meg." Then she leaned over, placed her mug next to Meg's and threw her arms around her.

When they parted, Whitney's eyes were damp. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate this."

Meg just smiled at her and hugged her again. "Welcome to the fun side, roomie."

*** *** ***

Harvard groaned when the phone buzzed, but he leaned over and grabbed it before the third ring anyway.

"What?" he croaked.

"Harvard, this is your mother. What are you doing?"

He sat bolt upright in bed, suddenly panicked. "Have I missed the meeting? Oh, crap. Dad's going to kill me."

"Your father is still safely asleep upstairs. Calm down; you haven't missed anything." Jillian paused. "And watch your language, young man."

"Yes, ma'am." Harvard slumped back against his pillows and yawned. "What time is it, anyway?"

"I don't know, exactly." If Harvard had been more awake he would have picked up on her evasive tone, but as it was, he was still too groggy to notice much of anything. "I was calling to see how things are going with that girl. You know, the one that wouldn't tell you her last name. By the way, did you ever get her to tell you?"

"Bailey. Meg Bailey."

Jillian laughed. "This is why I call you so early in the morning," she said. "You've never been able to keep your mouth closed when you first wake up."

Harvard groaned and rubbed his face with his hand. "Mother . . . "

"So how are you and Meg doing, anyway? When you hung up on me last week I was sure she'd either shown up on your doorstep with a rose clenched between her teeth or you'd remembered something important."

"The latter."

"Well, I'm glad. I'm not sure I could respect a woman who gave in to you so quickly. Harvard? Are you there?"

Harvard, who'd been having a hard time concentrating since Jillian had unwittingly planted a picture of a rose-toting Meg in his head, jerked to attention. "Huh? Oh. Right. She hasn't given in to me at all, actually. I thing she hates my guts."

"What on earth did you do to her?"

He felt mildly insulted. "Mother, I'm your son. Why are you automatically assuming I'm the one that did something wrong?"

Jillian sighed. "Because you're male, son, and you're your father's offspring. I have a long history with men screwing things up. Why don't you tell me what happened?"

So Harvard, clad only in his boxers and socks (how had he managed to forget to take them off? He couldn't remember) told his mother exactly what the problem was. "I have no idea. We went out to dinner; she had fun, I think. And then I helped her clean a property for her ridiculous boss, and she didn't run screaming from the mall in horror. She did spray me in the face with Windex, though."

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. "Is this some sort of dating ritual that I don't want to know about?"

If only, Harvard thought. "Not that I know of."

"So what's the problem? You seem to be getting along just famously."

Sighing, he leaned his head back against the headboard and stared up at the ceiling. "When I went back the next day to ask her out properly, she turned me down flat before I had the chance to get the words out of my mouth."

"And you're sure you didn't do some horrid man thing?"

"Mother, please. I don't do things like that."

"True."

They were quiet for a while. Harvard had started to drift back to sleep when his mother barked, "Wake up, Harvard! Is this girl important to you?"

He was so surprised by the question that he toppled over onto his pillow.

"Harvard Dartmouth Kingston! Pay attention!"

"She is!" He said the words without really thinking about the consequences.

"Then figure out how to fix this! She must have a friend or two that she confides in. Weren't you the one that wanted to be a Hardy Boy when you grew up?"

"That was a long time ago, Mom," Harvard said drily, and finally glanced at the clock. It was only 6:15.

"You're not _that_ old."

Harvard walked out of the hotel an hour later with the beginnings of a plan in his mind, and when Charley Grimm drove up to the mall in some wretched excuse for a car, Harvard pounced on him.

And then, halfway between the mall and Charley's car, he froze.

What was he doing? You know what you're doing, he reminded himself (and wondering how he'd come to a point where he was having a discussion with his own head). You're preparing to ask the man who could be Meg's boyfriend why she wasn't talking to his potential rival. I must be the most dim-witted person in existence.

By this time Charley had noticed him and there was no turning back. "Mr. Grimm?"

Charley popped the hood of his car and walked around to stare at its contents. "Yeah, that's me."

Harvard stared at the engine with him. The car wasn't quite as ugly inside as it was outside. He hadn't thought that was possible. "I need to talk to you," he said without looking at him. "I was wondering if . . ."

Charley poked a finger at the engine and scowled when it came back dirty. "You want to know if Meg and I are an item."

Well, thought Harvard, this was going better than he expected. "Something like that."

"Why don't you ask her?"

"I would, but she's been treating me like I have a dread disease and won't get within thirty feet of me."

"And I'm your other option." A gleam came into Charley's eye. "Well, it seems like you have more than one problem on your hands."

Harvard just glowered at Charley. He knew how many problems he was facing and didn't particularly care to be reminded of them.

"Well, Mr. Tall, Dark and Persistent, if Meg isn't going to tell you the sordid details of her love life, I don't see why I should."

Taking a deep breath, Harvard turned to look him in the eye. "Do you care if I ask her out?"

Charley just shrugged. "That seems to be a moot point, since you just told me she's avoiding you. Last time I checked it was kind of hard to go on a date with a person that won't let you talk to her."

Could this guy be any more infuriating? And why hadn't Princeton made him take a class on how to deal with people who got more infuriating the more you interacted with them? He was sure a college course like that would be wildly popular – and useful. "I'll worry about that, thanks. Just answer the question, Grimm."

The corner of Charley's mouth twitched. "So we're on last-name only basis, huh? You're a fast mover, Kingston." He slammed the hood of his car shut and dusted his hands together. "Honestly, if you want to know if Meg and I are dating, I'd suggest you talk to her. If she wants you to know she'll tell you."

"That's what my mother said," Harvard muttered under his breath, flushing when Charley laughed. "But I still don't know why she's avoiding me – or why she won't go out with me."

Charley's eyes narrowed, like he was sizing Harvard up. "Before I say anything, you need to tell me something first. What are your intentions toward Meg Bailey?"

What was this, a marriage interview? Harvard thought. It was easier to get a doctoral degree than it was to extract information from this guy. "I'm not going to force her to go to dinner with me if she doesn't want to," Harvard said with some exasperation. "I just want to know . . . "

"What she's thinking. Well, man, she's a girl. Do you honestly know what makes any of them tick?"

Harvard grimaced, thinking of his conversation with his mother. He'd been trying to figure out all morning why she was so interested in his relationship, or lack thereof, with a woman she'd never met before. The only thing he could figure was that her internal, grandmotherly clock was going into overdrive -- and getting louder by the second.

"Me either. But I do happen to know what Meg's thinking in this particular instance. Come inside with me. I'm just staring at the car in case something looks familiar. And if Meg sees me talking to you she'll probably stuff one of her high-heeled shoes up my nose."

Once they were seated in his office, Charley leaned back in his chair and rested his hands behind his head. "What do you know about Meg's past?"

Harvard felt a little squirmy, but he tried not to let Charley see that. Looking someone up on the internet was hardly a crime. "I know that her mother was killed outside The Glass Slipper a year ago," he said slowly, "and that Mamie bought the shop from Meg's father. But Meg doesn't know that I know that," he added hastily. "I Googled her when she wouldn't tell me her last name."

Charley was quiet for a few seconds. "You _are_ persistent. Did your research tell you about how miserable Meg's been for the past year? And that she never gets any time off?"

"I noticed that. She always looks tired."

"That's what she said about you. Maybe you have more in common than you think." Charley tapped his fingers on his chin thoughtfully. "If I come right out and tell you why Meg won't give you the time of day, I won't be able to look her in the face. But come on. You seem to be a smart enough guy. Think about her situation."

Harvard had already done more thinking that morning than he did in the course of a week, and his brain was starting to rebel. "Let me see if I have this straight. Meg's boss is horrid to her, and she gets extra work when Attila – er, Mamie – gets her knickers all bunched up."

Charley nodded. "And Mamie's daughter wants to have your children. Don't forget that."

Wincing, Harvard agreed. "That's not reciprocated, by the way."

"That's a relief. I'd question your sanity if you did."

Harvard sat there and stared at the ribbon-strewn desk in front of him. It didn't take very long before the pieces had clicked together.

"You're a genius, Mr. Grimm." Harvard grinned and got to his feet. "Thank you for not telling me why Miss Bailey is reluctant to see me. I understand her reasoning perfectly."

Charley followed Harvard out of the store, past his car, and to the main entrance of the mall. "Where are you going?" he asked as he jogged behind him.

Harvard held the door open for him and strode down the hall to the security offices that were quickly starting to feel like his second home. "I have a sudden urge to study all of Ms. Steppe's work habits," he said.

After all, it would hardly do to begin Mission Meg without knowing all the pertinent information.

And once he had Mamie figured out, Meg had better watch out.

**Author's note**: Thanks to all of you wonderful reviewers! Keep it up; I only have 1000 words of the next chapter written (and for me, that's woefully inadequate) and I tend to write faster when people nudge me along. . .


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Meg sat at the register and watched Whitney, who walked around the shop with a feather duster in her hand. She was humming something that sounded suspiciously like it might have come from a Disney movie. Meg smiled to herself and shook her head. She didn't understand how Whitney could be so happy when she'd had maybe an hour of sleep the night before. Maybe she was one of those people who never needed to sleep. She felt slightly envious.

It would be nice to have someone living under her roof again, though – even if said roommate insisted on paying rent.

"What's up with her?"

Charley stood next to Meg, his eyes narrowed as he regarded Whitney. "There's nothing wrong with her," she told him. She grinned before stifling a yawn. "She's just in a very good mood today."

His head tracked Whitney's progress around the store. "Why? Did her mother get deported?"

"Deported? Where would she go?"

Charley grinned, an evil glint in his eye. "Hell, of course. I hear the devil brigade has been short-staffed since Mamie moved to the realm of the living."

Meg snorted with laughter. "You're lucky Mamie won't be here for the next week," she told him. "If she heard you say that . . . "

Charley just smirked at me. "No wonder Whitney's in such a good mood."

"Yeah." Meg paused, eyes twinkling. She was too relieved at Mamie's absence o question it. "It helps that she's not living at home anymore."

"Oh, really?" This didn't seem to faze him. "Where's she living?"

He looked at her when she didn't answer right away. "Meg?"

She grinned. "With me."

It took a good long time for Charley to get over the shock, and when he did, he sank into a chair and ran his hand through his carefully arranged hair. "I can't believe it,' he muttered. "Our little Steppe just took a huge leap toward independence. I hope you didn't let her move in without making financial arrangements."

"Whitney insisted on paying rent," she told him cheerfully, "so you can wipe that scowl off your face."

Charley harrumphed and ran his hand distractedly over his head again, making the parts that had previously been sticking up poke out at the sides at angles only possible with a healthy amount of hair products. "Well, at least someone's looking out for you," he grumbled. "You sure aren't."

"Stop that," she said, and reached over the counter to bat his hands away from his hair. "You're giving yourself bed head, and it's eleven o'clock in the morning. And besides, you can see the grey easier when it's all messed up."

Charley's hands froze and his face paled. "No, you can't."

Meg caught Whitney's eye and winked at her. "Yes, you can. Even Whitney thinks so."

Whitney's startled eyes turned in Charley's direction. She looked at him for so long that Charley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I don't see any," she said finally – although it was a little louder than usual.

Charley laughed at Meg's scrunched-up expression. "I like this girl more every day."

Meg was still watching Whitney an hour later, and Whitney had finally had enough. "What?" she asked, placing a pair of ballet flats back on the shelf. "You've been staring at me all morning."

"Sorry." Meg tried to pull her thoughts together. "It's just that there's something different about you today. I've been trying to figure out what it is, but . . . " She shrugged her shoulders. "I must be too tired to think straight. How are you doing it?"

"Doing what?"

"Functioning. You got even less sleep than I did."

"I'm too wired to be tired. Talk to me at closing and I won't be nearly as chipper." Whitney stared off into the distance. "You never saw Mamie outside the shop, did you?"

When Meg shook her head, Whitney's eyebrows bunched together. "Well, she may have treated me better than she did you, but only barely."

Meg leaned against her and put her arm around Whitney's waist. "Then I guess it's good that you don't live there anymore," she said lightly. "Have you told her where you're staying?"

Whitney's body relaxed against Meg's. "She didn't ask, and I didn't feel inclined to tell her."

"She's likely to blow a gasket when she finds out."

Scowling fiercely, Whitney pulled away and started to organize the day's receipts. "I don't care what she does," she retorted. "She's been telling me what I can and can't do long enough. I think I'm old enough to make my own decisions by now."

Meg placed her hand on Whitney's arm, stilling her motions, and when Whitney finally spoke again she did so in a voice that was firmer, more confident than Meg had ever heard. "Will you teach me how to drive?"

"Drive? I don't know," she said doubtfully. "I don't have a whole lot of experience in teaching anyone to do anything."

Whitney just rolled her eyes. "I took driver's ed a long time ago, so it's not like you'll have to start from scratch."

"Then what happened?" Meg had been wondering this since Whitney had told her the night before about her non-driving status, but had been too polite to ask.

"It was the test," Whitney told her sorrowfully. "Mamie insisted on coming along for the practical part. How would you do if she was breathing down your neck when you were trying to make a three-point turn? I failed four times straight before I gave up."

Meg snickered. "I can imagine. If you really want me to, I'll refresh your memory – and I promise to leave you alone when you take your test. We might have to go celebrate after, though."

"You're awfully confident in your abilities."

Grinning, Meg got to her feet and straightened the mirror behind them. "I love a challenge."

Looking doubtful, Whitney pushed her toward the entrance. "Go have lunch and leave me alone," she said. "And take your time. You need energy food. I saw how much you ate for breakfast this morning."

Maybe there were a few downfalls to having a roommate, Meg thought.

*** *** ***

Harvard watched as Meg's head started drooping over her sandwich. He'd been down the hall when he'd seen her exit her shop, and followed her almost without realizing it. He wasn't planning on going over to her, but when her head tilted forward and her sandwich fell on the ground his feet moved across the crowded room without another thought.

A few heads, mostly female, turned appreciatively in his direction as he threaded his way to her table, and for once in his life he ignored them.

He sat down and regarded her silently. He'd been watching security tapes all morning for Phase One of Mission Meg and had only come up with two facts, which he'd already figured out before: Mamie hardly ever worked, and when she did, she rarely came in before noon.

He wondered idly how she was making enough money to pay for another business. Maybe she was paying herself on some sort of fixed scale that involved neither commission nor hours.

But it did explain why Meg was always so tired. He'd long ago figured that out, too, but it was always nice to have proof. Could he legally 'encourage' Mamie to hire another employee?

All in the guise of owner-tenant relations, of course.

He watched Meg as she slept, blissfully unaware that someone was observing her (and unwilling to use the word stalker, no matter how much he felt like one) and wondered what she'd do if she woke up and found him there.

Without warning, Meg's head jerked up, her eyes wild and unseeing. "Call the doctor!" she gasped, and put her hands over her eyes. "Make it stop, make it stop!"

Alarmed, Harvard reached out and grabbed her wrist, hoping to wake her up, but when his fingers brushed against her skin she jerked back, grabbed her cup of soda, and threw it in his face.

She had amazingly good aim for a person who was still dreaming, Harvard thought, sighing as the cold liquid made its way down his chest. He would have done a lot better on his Little League team if he could have pitched like that.

"Wake up, Meg." This time when he grabbed her hands she didn't pull away. She just blinked at him, confusion written all over her face. "You've been having a bad dream."

"Harvard?" Her voice was unsure. "What are you doing here?"

That was the question of the year, Harvard thought drily as her drink dripped slowly onto his shoulders. "I thought you might like some company," he answered finally. "But then you fell asleep before I made it over here."

"Oh." Meg seemed to ponder that. "What happened to your face? And why are you holding my wrists?"

Harvard felt an uncomfortable sensation creeping across his cheeks. He half-thought it might be a blush, but dismissed the idea almost immediately. He hadn't blushed in years, and it would take more than a short, blonde-haired girl (with surprisingly soft skin) to make him start now.

"I had a small encounter with your soda while I was trying to wake you up," he said curtly, letting his fingers drift away from her. "I think I succeeded."

What was it with Meg and his face? he asked himself, trying ineffectively to mop the liquid from his forehead. She'd gone from attacking his ego to trying to blind him. Next thing he knew she'd be aiming lower and . . .

Well. He didn't really want to think about that. Just the idea made him shudder.

Meg looked at him curiously and then dug through her purse. Harvard almost laughed when she wordlessly handed him his own handkerchief. He was wiping his face and inhaling the scent of flowers and vanilla – and root beer -- when she spoke.

"Am I responsible for that?" She pointed to his shirt.

Harvard glanced down to his white button-down. It was now covered in brown splotches, and he shrugged. He was about to smirk at her and make a joke about beverages taking the place of cleaning solutions when he caught the expression on her face. She looked worried.

"No," he said, stuffing his handkerchief in his pocket before he realized that he'd just got all his money wet. "It was my fault. What were you dreaming about, anyway? It must have been one heck of a . . . " He stopped when he heard her indrawn breath.

"I was dreaming of the last time I saw my mother." She shivered and rubbed her arms unconsciously. "I only do that when I'm really tired."

Harvard cleared his throat. He was usually very slick with women, but whenever he spoke to Meg all his tact and reasoning skills deserted him. "I'm sorry," he said, glancing down at the table and staring at the puddle on the floor.

She just shrugged and looked away. "It's not your fault. I just didn't get any sleep last night, so it's not that surprising."

"I see." Feeling that a change in topic might be a good idea, Harvard said the first thing that came to his mind. "Would you mind if I asked you something?"

Meg's eyes went from pensive to guarded. "I'm not going to ask you out again," he told her, adding _not yet_ in his mind. He wished she wouldn't look so freaked out by the idea of going out with him. "I was just wondering about your relationship with Mr. Grimm."

She started to roll her eyes but stopped before she got very far. "Everyone asks me that," she muttered to herself. "I swear, if my best friend was a girl, would everyone assume I was a lesbian?"

Harvard felt decidedly ill at ease, and his cheeks got warm again. Had she managed to make him blush twice? In the same conversation? He had to make sure this stopped. He just didn't know how. "Um, no?"

Sighing, Meg rested her chin on her hand and regarded him patiently. "Maybe you should ask Charley, since you're so interested."

What was it with these people? "I did," he said, getting irritated. "He told me to ask you. I'm beginning to think that you're secretly married or something." He crossed his arms over his damp chest and glowered at her.

Her eyes widened and then crinkled with laughter. "Married? To Charley? No way."

That made Harvard feel marginally better. "Are you dating him? It's a very simple question, Meg."

"No."

Meg's answer was so sure that he grinned at her. "Are you sure? You guys seem awfully chummy."

Leaning forward, she looked him in the eye. "Trust me, Harvard, there are no romantic feelings there. Back in college so many people asked us about our so-called relationship that we got curious enough to kiss each other."

"And?" Harvard held his breath.

"Nothing. It was like kissing one of those dummies they use to teach you CPR in health class. He felt the same," she added when his mouth opened to ask another question. "And that effectively banished all thoughts of non-platonic love from our minds."

Harvard's grin returned. "I'd ask how you know how kissing a dummy feels, but I don't think I want to know." He paused. Now was as good a time as any. "Would you consider adding me to your list of friends? I could use one."

Meg regarded him thoughtfully. "I don't know, Harvard," she said slowly. "I like you. Really, I do. But if my boss saw me talking to you . . . "

"Let me handle that." Harvard uncrossed his arms and leaned on the table so that only a foot of space separated them. "She can't have a problem with us being friends, can she? And last time I checked friends were allowed to hang out together occasionally."

She opened her mouth, but closed it when he shot her a pleading look. That look always made his mother hesitate, and it worked on Meg, too. He filed that bit of information away for future use.

"Okay," she said after a long pause. "I can try that. But no flirting."

There was no way Harvard was going to agree to that, so he smiled at her and sat back in his chair, hoping she wouldn't notice that he hadn't agreed with her. "Am I allowed to buy you lunch once in a while?"

She shot him a look. "Only as long as I can do the same for you."

Ten minutes later Harvard walked Meg to The Glass Slipper, feeling very pleased with himself. Phase Two of Mission Meg had gone very well. Very well, indeed.

*** *** ***

Shortly before closing a week later, Meg was puttering around in the back, trying to make room amongst all of Brittany's junk for the new shipment that was due to arrive, when her phone buzzed with an incoming text.

_Are you still on for my concert tonight?_

Meg's eyes flew to the calendar hanging next to the door and she blew out a breath of frustration. It was Sunday, but was today really the day of Lexie's concert? How had she lost track of time? A month ago Lexie, her sixteen-year-old next-door neighbor, had invited the entire block to her choir concert. Meg, who'd babysat Lexie when she was younger, had agreed on the spot.

Then she'd completely forgotten about it.

_Of course_, she sent back, glancing at the clock. _I may have to bring my roommate. Do you mind?_

_ The more the merrier! See you soon!_

Meg made her way into the shop and sank onto her stool while she dialed Charley. "Did you remember that today was Lexie's concert?" she demanded when he answered.

"Of course." He sounded surprised. "Seven o'clock. It's on my calendar. I even brought extra clothes from home so I could leave from here."

"Can't you wear what you have on?"

She could hear his impatient huff even across cell phone waves. "These are work clothes, Meg. Not choir concert clothes. You weren't planning on wearing what you have on, were you?"

Meg looked around to see if he was in the room. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" she demanded. She'd grabbed the first (and only) clean skirt she'd found and run out of the house without giving it another thought.

Charley tutted at her. "I'll be over in a second," he said before the line was dead.

Meg closed her phone and shook her head. Between Harvard's obsession with feeding her and Charley's urge to dress her, she hardly needed to make a decision for herself.

"What's up?" Whitney plopped beside her. She was still ridiculously chipper.

"How do you feel about going to a high school choir concert tonight?"

Whitney promptly toppled off her stool.

"I know it's short notice," Meg hastened to explain, and leaned down to help Whitney up. "But I'll be late as it is, and I won't have time to drop you off, and I feel guilty making you take a – "

Laughing, Whitney allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. "Stop it," she said. "I'd love to go."

"See?" Charley's amused voice came from the front of the store. "Isn't this much better?"

Both of the girls turned to him, and Meg took one look at the dress in his hands and groaned. "That's a little formal, don't you think?"

Charley raised his eyebrows at her. "You can never be too formal, Meg. Trust me."

Meg shook her head. "I don't think you have anything in your entire inventory that would work."

Crooking a finger at her, Charley said, "Then come and see what I have in the back. I got it with you in mind."

Whitney laughed and pushed her toward her friend. "Go on," she said. "I'll watch things here until you get back."

Three minutes before they had to leave Meg ran barefoot back to her own shop, clad in a dress that was neither too formal nor too casual. It was, much to her disgust, just right.

Although she'd never admit as much to Charley. His head was big enough already.

Whitney was waiting for her at the gate, ready to close it for the day. "Thanks," Meg gasped, and ducked under it. When she straightened up again she walked right into something tall, dark, and . . . fuzzy.

Fuzzy?

She bounced back, and Harvard's hands reached out to her elbows to steady her. "Hey," he said. He'd only said one word, but it sounded funny even to Meg's surprised ears.

She ran her hand through her hair and unconsciously pulled her ponytail holder out. Harvard's eyes followed the strands of her hair as they settled around her shoulders. "What are you doing here?" she asked, rubbing her scalp and wincing. She never could remember not to tie her hair so tight.

"What?"

Meg's hands drifted to her sides. "Here. What are you doing in my shop this late?"

Harvard cleared his throat and pulled on his collar a few times. "I was walking past when Whitney called me in," he said, his eyes still riveted to her hair. "She asked me what I was doing tonight, and when I told her I was going back to the hotel to work she invited me to come – where, again?" he asked, wrenching his attention away from Meg.

"A choir concert. It'll be fun."

One edge of Harvard's mouth quirked up. "Fun. Of course." He glanced at Meg and cleared his throat again. "Are you – "

Meg caught the time on his watch as he lifted his hand to run it through his hair and cut him off mid-sentence. "Come on," she said, grabbing Whitney's arm and propelling her toward the exit. "We have exactly seven minutes to get there. Do you know where we're going?" she shot over her shoulder in Harvard's direction.

"I'll follow you."

Meg smiled to herself as she thrust her feet into a pair of heels and ran out the door. "Try to keep up," she called. "I'm in a hurry."

Six and a half minutes later she screeched to a halt in the school's parking lot and grinned at the expression on Harvard's face as he pulled in next to her. "What are you trying to do, kill me?" he demanded, slamming his door shut. "Do you have any idea how fast you were going?"

Meg just laughed and waited while Charley sauntered over to them. "Where's Whitney?" he asked, glancing around. "Didn't she come with you?"

"She's still in the car." Meg smiled innocently at him.

"Probably trying to stuff her heart back into her chest," Harvard muttered, and when Whitney emerged a second later, pale and wide-eyed, he shot Meg a triumphant look.

"Quit being such a baby," she scolded, and suddenly grinned. "I was in a hurry. And we still are. Come on, people. We have a concert to attend."

Harvard was still shaking his head when they slid into their seats with a whopping three seconds to spare. Meg patted him on the back sympathetically. His body inched toward her, and she snatched her hand away like she'd been caught doing something immoral. He just raised his eyebrows at her and turned his attention back to the young singers lined up in front of the auditorium. The faint traces of a self-satisfied smile lingered on his face for a long time.

*** *** ***

"So, what did you think?"

A very excited Lexie stood before them, clasping her hands in front of her. "The tenors were off pitch in that third song. I knew it."

Meg put her arms around her and hugged tightly. "I didn't notice the tenors," she said truthfully, although she didn't think it would be appropriate to tell a sixteen-year-old that she'd been distracted by the tall man that had been sitting next to her. "I thought you sounded divine. Didn't she, Charley?"

Charley had been strangely quiet throughout the concert, and Meg was starting to think that he'd caught a cold. "It was lovely," he said, smiling at Lexie encouragingly. "It's the best high school choir concert I've ever been to."

Lexie's eyes narrowed. "How many have you gone to?"

"One." He somehow kept his face straight, and after scrutinizing him for a long moment Lexie turned back to Meg.

"What are you doing after this?" Meg asked in an attempt to get the attention away from Charley, even though he didn't look repentant.

Lexie shrugged. "I don't know. My parents won't let me go out with my friends because I have school tomorrow, so I guess I'll have to go home and go to bed." She made a face. "It would be so much more fun if they'd stop yakking at me about good colleges. I hate it when they get all Harvard this and Yale that."

Harvard made a muffled noise behind Meg, and she reached behind her to pinch his arm. He immediately shut up and rubbed the spot she'd twisted.

"Why don't you come over to my place?" Meg asked. "My friend here went to Princeton. He could give you pointers about getting in at an Ivy League school."

"That's great!" Lexie's eyes shone. "I'll be over as soon as I can drag the 'rents out of here!" Meg watched as her young friend practically bounced her way over to the other side of the room, where her father was speaking earnestly to a long-suffering counselor.

Harvard didn't say anything until they were outside. His steps slowed to let Charley and Whitney go ahead of them. "You realize that I'm going to have to come to your house now," he said. "Are you sure that's allowed?"

Meg glanced up at him. His hands were in his pockets and he'd undone the top button of his dress shirt. He looked more relaxed than she'd seen him since their very first meeting. "I know that," she told him. "Isn't that what friends do? Hang out at each other's houses?"

"Well, yeah," Harvard said slowly. "But we really only became friends a little while ago. I didn't want you to think that I was pushing you to do anything you didn't want."

"So you don't want my address?" Meg had a hunch that he already knew where she lived, but if he wanted to keep that under his hat she wasn't going to call him on it. She cocked her head to the side so she could see him better. "Are you sure this is about _me_ being pushed? After all, I was the one that told Lexie you'd be there without actually checking with you first."

"True." Harvard seemed to think about this for a second. When he looked down at her he was grinning. "It's okay. I'd love to impart my vast knowledge of colleges into her impressionable young mind. It'll make me feel like I've done something useful for society."

His eyes creased when he smiled down at her, and Meg was still wondering if he was doing some sort of covert flirtation when they finally reached Charley and Whitney at her car. "It took you two long enough," Charley grumbled good-naturedly. "We've had to resort to counting fireflies."

Whitney rolled her eyes. "It's too early in the year for fireflies," she reminded him. "And we didn't mind at all." She looked around at all the gown-clad choir members milling around with their families. "This all seems like so long ago."

Meg knew exactly how she felt. It seemed like an eon since she'd been carefree. The wind blew a strand of her hair across her face, and she pushed it irritably behind her ear. "It seems that I'm having an impromptu party at my place," she told Charley with a sigh. "You're welcome to come if you want."

"I'm always good for a party, Meg." He grinned down at her. "But I think I'll take Whitney with me, if you don't mind. She's still a little green around the gills."

Whitney looked fine from where Meg was standing, and she raised her eyebrows at Charley. "She does, huh?"

"She does." Charley opened his passenger door for Whitney, who looked like she didn't know what to do.

"It's okay," Meg assured her, hiding a yawn behind her hand. "He doesn't bite."

"Just because I haven't bitten you doesn't mean I wouldn't want to do it to someone else," Charley retorted. "Try not to fall asleep on your way home."

Meg tried to follow the speed limit for the few miles between the school and her house, and to her relief Harvard looked relatively normal when he emerged from his car in her driveway. "I'm glad to see you don't always careen through the streets of Brothers like a madwoman," he commented, following her up the front steps. "Wow. Is this whole house yours?"

"No." She flashed him a tight smile and opened the door. "Just the top floor. The bottom belongs to my dad."

By the time Lexie arrived Meg and Charley were in the kitchen arguing about food. "I still don't see why you feel the need to make us dessert," Charley argued even as Meg slid a pan of brownies into the oven. "By the time they're done it'll be time for Lexie to leave."

"Maybe," she admitted, handing Lexie the mixing spoon, "but every girl loves a little chocolate, and Lexie's parents think it'll give her spots. My sole job in this neighborhood is to provide contraband, slightly addictive substances to those who can't get them on their own."

"So you're like a supplier." Harvard's tone was amused.

Meg looked down her nose at him – a hard feat, since he was almost as tall as she was when he was seated. "I am," she told him loftily. "I supply people with fashionable shoes and legal stimulants. I'm an addict's dream come true."

Harvard's eyes flashed with something she didn't recognize. "That's one way to put it."

Lexie spluttered, getting chocolate all over her chin. "Don't mind him," Meg said, handing her a washcloth. "He doesn't understand about women, chocolate and shoes."

Lexie glanced at Harvard and giggled.

Meg could see why. He'd taken off his shoes at the front door, rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows (neatly – this was a little surprising) and his hair was slightly ruffled. Perhaps the hair goo wore off with time, Meg thought. She'd have to ask Charley about that.

"That was a lovely concert, Lexie." Whitney's quiet voice mad them all nod. "I used to want to be a high school choir director, but . . . "

"But what? You have to sing better than mine does. All she can do is croak with the basses." Lexie licked the last of the batter off her spoon and placed it carefully in the sink. "Thanks, Miss Bailey. I needed that."

"When do you want to hear about Ivy League schools?" Harvard asked.

Shrugging, Lexie sat across from Whitney. "Never. The one who wants to go to Harvard is my dad. If I could convince him to go to college in my place he would – as long as it's prestigious enough. I don't want to go to an Ivy."

"Where do you want to go?" Harvard asked. It seemed to Meg like he'd had this conversation before, just with different people. And on the other end of it.

"I want to stay here and go to Michigan State. So, Miss Steppe, can you sing?"

Meg was having a hard time keeping up with Lexie's conversational skills. She'd just spoken to three people within the span of thirty seconds. Maybe she should go into debate.

Whitney, looking distinctly uncomfortable, averted her eyes. "I used to sing, a long time ago," she told the refrigerator. "But Mamie told me I wasn't good enough to do anything with it, so . . . "

"Well, I don't know who Mamie is or why they gave her such a stupid name, but you can't be that bad." Lexie fixed her gaze on Whitney. "Come on, let's hear you."

"Hey, now," Charley protested. "If she doesn't want to sing she doesn't have to."

Meg's eyes narrowed. Charley never let anyone off that easily.

"Well, if she wants to be a choir director she has to be able to carry a tune," Lexie told him.

Whitney twisted her hands on top of the table. "I don't know," she said. "I don't think I can sing while you're all staring at me."

Three pairs of eyes shifted away from her immediately. "Then go out in the hallway." Lexie nodded helpfully. "Don't worry about us at all."

Whitney's eyes darted around until they landed on Charley, who was scowling at Lexie. Her shoulders squared and she slowly got to her feet. "Just don't expect too much." She took a deep breath and walked slowly out of the kitchen. "I haven't sung for anyone in years."

Three jaws dropped simultaneously as a clear, high soprano rang into the kitchen. Whitney was, Meg noted even amidst her astonishment, singing a song from _Snow White_. It was one of the most beautiful sounds Meg had ever heard.

It was also, she thought after a quick glance at Charley, strangely fitting.

When she stopped singing no one knew quite what to do. "Wow," Lexie called. "You should totally go on _American Idol_. I'd vote for you for sure. And I can vote on my cell and the cordless at the same time, so I'm pretty sure you'd win."

Whitney emerged from around the corner, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and hope. "I wasn't horrible?"

Meg cleared her throat. "I don't know how Mamie convinced you that you weren't any good," she said quietly. "You sound like . . . like . . . "

"An angel." Charley's eyes were wide, and he was looking at Whitney like he'd never really seen her properly before. "Will you marry me?"

Whitney blushed even more and laughed nervously. "I've always wondered what would have happened if I'd been allowed to study music ed in college."

Meg was pulling the brownies out of the oven, and thinking that all she'd have to do was change Charley's last name to Bingley and he could have stepped out of the pages of an Austen novel, when Lexie announced she had to leave. "You should so be a choir teacher," she told Whitney. "Mine is retiring next year. Maybe you could apply at my school."

"I'll walk you home," Whitney said, neatly avoiding Lexie's hint. "Girls shouldn't be out this late at night by themselves."

Lexie looked dubious but agreed anyway. "You shouldn't be out, either," she pointed out. "Who's going to protect you from the big, bad garbage can in my front yard?"

"I will." Charley, still looking dazed, grabbed his jacket and handed it to Whitney. "They don't call me the trash killer for nothing." He glanced at Meg before disappearing out the door. The look said, quite plainly, _help_.

*** *** ***

Harvard was in love.

Not with Meg, he told himself firmly as he sank into the couch in her family room. With her house.

At least, her portion of it.

He thought about asking her about her father, but every time he brought it up she got all tight-lipped and her eyes snapped.

Maybe not right now. He was too comfortable, and Meg looked to tired, to go into something that could very well turn out to be unpleasant. But that didn't mean he'd forget about it.

"You have an amazing collection of books," he said in an effort to fill the silence. "Where did you get all of them?"

Meg gave him a strange look. "From the bookstore."

Well, duh. He probably could have figured that out. "So why aren't you in the book business? You obviously love to read."

She lifted a shoulder, making her blonde hair slide down her arm. It was a fascinating sight, and Harvard almost didn't hear what she said next because his attention was elsewhere. "We've been selling shoes for a long, long time. Books are a hobby for me."

"Hobby," Harvard repeated absently. "No wonder I saw you at Barnes & Noble that day with Charley. Do you go there often?" He winced at the last words. They sounded like a really, really bad pick-up line.

But Meg just laughed. "Is that what you say to all the girls you meet?"

"Only the pretty ones."

Meg flushed, and Harvard leaned back even further into the cushions. Between the scent of old books and chocolate, he might very well have died and gone to heaven. He wondered idly if Meg would mind another roommate.

"So what's your hobby?"

Harvard's eyes snapped to hers, and he stared at her, uncomprehending for a second. "What?"

"Your hobby," Meg repeated, her eyes dancing with amusement across from him. "What is it?"

"Oh. I'm too busy to have a hobby." He tried to sit up straight, but the couch had somehow gotten a hold of his spine and wouldn't let go. If my mother could only see me now, he thought ruefully. I'm in a girl's home with my shirtsleeves rolled up, slouching on her couch like a bum. She'd box my ears for sure.

He was slightly surprised to find that, if he got to stay exactly where he was, with Meg smiling at him, he wouldn't mind having his ears boxed.

Meg's voice broke into his thoughts. "Everyone has a hobby, Harvard." She pulled her feet underneath her and rested her head against the side of the couch. "Even people who are too busy to realize it."

That made him think. What _was_ his hobby? Ever since he'd landed in Michigan all he'd done was sit in meetings and observe his tenants.

And inspect one Meg Bailey.

Was Meg his hobby?

The idea was perplexing. He'd never focused on one girl, ever – not even when he'd had steady girlfriends. They'd usually been the ones to focus on him.

He rather liked being on the other end for a change.

Meg was looking expectantly at him, so he shrugged uncomfortably and said, "I don't know. I'll have to think about it," knowing that this was the worst sort of lie he could possibly tell.

But really, how did a guy tell a girl that she was his new hobby? It would look creepy and weird, and that was not the impression he wanted to give her. Even if he was.

"I used to like to read," he offered, forcing his body out of the couch's pernicious clutches so he could make his way to her over-stuffed bookshelves. "Do you have a favorite author?"

Meg tried to muffle a yawn. "I like the classics. Bronte, Dickens, Tolstoy, all of those old dead authors they make you read when you're younger. But I like more recent ones, too."

"Like who?"

She thought about this for a minute. "Kate DiCamillo, Sarah Addison Allen, C.A. Belmond, Patrick Taylor . . . " She yawned again. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I haven't been getting a lot of sleep."

Harvard leaned against the bookshelf he'd been inspecting and watched as her eyes slowly closed. Seconds later her breaths were slow and regular. Harvard didn't dare move, but when his foot started to fall asleep he shifted slightly to his left.

And knocked over a stack of books that, he was sure, were piled up alphabetically, waiting to be reshelved.

He froze, not daring to look in Meg's direction in case he'd woken her up. When there was no sound from the couch he leaned over, shoved the books into an untidy pile, and heaved a sigh of relief.

Either she was really tired, or he was the world's worst conversationalist and she was pretending to be asleep in order to escape his inane mutterings.

He was still crouched on the floor when Whitney and Charley came back in. Charley rounded the corner, took one look at Harvard, and burst out laughing. "What are you doing down there, Kingston?" he asked, pretending to wipe the tears from his dry eyes. "You look like you've just been caught robbing the house."

"Shut up," Harvard hissed. "You'll wake her up."

Charley snorted once and sobered up. "The only time Meg's tired enough to fall asleep with company in the house is when she's so tired she can't possibly keep her eyes open another second. You could yell gibberish in her ear and she wouldn't budge." He sighed. "I guess we'd better drag her to bed and get going. I don't know about you, Kingston, but some of us have to go to work in the morning."

Harvard stood swiftly and smoothed his hair down. "I work," he said in a rather stiff voice. "Tell me where Meg's room is, and I'll take her in for you." He eyed Charley critically. "I don't think you could make it very far carrying her."

Charley bristled until Whitney smiled hesitantly in his direction, distracting him long enough for Harvard to bend over and pick Meg off the couch. "Follow me," she told him, and led the way down the hall.

*** *** ***

Harvard and Charley walked down the front steps together a few minutes later, their steps slow. "Tell me something," Charley said suddenly just as they reached their cars. "Have you ever been the inspiration for a romance novel?"

Harvard's eyebrows shot up so fast he was surprised they'd remained on his forehead. "What kind of question is that?" he demanded.

Looking irritated, Charley shook his head. "Never mind."

They both turned to watch as the lights shining through the windows above them turned off. "Well, that was a very enlightening evening," Charley finally said.

"That it was." Harvard thought about the way Meg's head had fit into the crook of his shoulder when he carried her down the hall. It had been a rather intoxicating sensation.

Charley shook himself and leaned against his hideous car. "How's your quest coming along?"

Harvard's mind was filled with the scent of Meg's shampoo, so it took him a second to gather his wits. "What are you talking about?"

"Your quest. You know, to convince Meg that you're her one true love and all that fairy tale yak."

"Oh, you mean Mission Meg."

Charley let out another snort. He should probably see a medical professional about that, Harvard noted. "You have a name for your quest?"

Harvard felt a little defensive. He hadn't meant to mention that. It was hardly his fault that he liked to label things. It kept his brain organized. "It's going fine," he said shortly, and unlocked his door. The interior lights flickered on, illuminating his rental car.

To Harvard's annoyance, Charley remained where he was, staring up at the house in front of them. "Get a move on, Grimm. In case you hadn't noticed, I can't get out until you move your sorry excuse for a car out of the way. Some of us have to work tomorrow, you know." Harvard grinned at Charley's scowl. It felt good to use his own words against him.

Charley cast a derisive glance toward Harvard's rental car. "Afraid some of Tang's charm and personality will rub off on your cookie cutter?"

What was he talking about now? Did he have some sort of nasty fruit drink hidden somewhere? "I have all the charm I need," he muttered, watching as the lights in his car dimmed. "It's the convincing power that I seem to be lacking."

His scowl turning thoughtful, Charley eyed Harvard. "How would you feel about a repeat of this evening's activities?" he asked, overly casual.

Charley was either his mother in disguise or mental. "I don't know," he said cautiously, not sure where this was headed. "Why? Are you asking me out?"

Charley made a disgusted face. "No, Mr. Tall, Dark and Suspicious. I'm hinting that we may be more effective if we work together. As in, a double date. With Meg and Whitney," he added, completely unnecessarily.

Harvard's mind flew yet again to Meg. "I'm listening."

"Well," Charley said, "As much as I hate to admit it, you and I appear to have a common goal now. I was thinking that it would be easier, and more useful, if we helped each other out."

Ah, Harvard thought. Charley's after Whitney. He'd seen the way the poor guy had looked after Whitney'd started singing. "That's not a bad idea," he replied slowly. "Did you have anything particular in mind?"

Grinning, Charley beckoned Harvard over to his car. "I know this great little restaurant . . . "

Harvard was feeling decidedly optimistic on his way back to the hotel.

Mission Meg – or Quest Whitney, depending on who was speaking – had just entered a whole new galaxy.

If they were good, and he'd eat his right foot if they weren't, those two girls would never know what hit them.

Author's note: I know I usually post on Sundays, but this chapter kept getting longer and longer . . . so it took a while to finish. I can almost guarantee that there won't be another chapter next Sunday, as Christmas break is putting a damper on my writing time. But let me know if you like this one; I love, and I mean love, to hear your thoughts!


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Meg woke up the next morning when Whitney's voice drifted into her bedroom. She was singing that song from _Snow White_ again, and Meg wondered idly if rabbits and squirrels with big eyes would start popping out of the kitchen cabinets. Or if the Prince Charming from the movie would magically appear under Whitney's window. As far as princes went, he was all right, she supposed, but she preferred her Charmings to be more . . . human. Maybe even a little sarcastic.

An image of Harvard popped unbidden into her head, and she scowled fiercely at the ceiling. Harvard was _not_ her Prince Charming.

Even if his last name was Kingston.

She tried to banish Harvard from her mind but it wouldn't obey. He'd looked very comfortable the night before as he leaned against her bookshelves. She could almost imagine him with a pair of glasses perched on his nose, thumbing studiously through a book, shooting that grin of his in her direction . . .

This was going to have to stop.

It wasn't until she'd rolled out of bed that she realized she was still in the clothes she'd been wearing the night before. "Whitney?" she called down the hall. "Do you know why I went to sleep in my dress?"

Whitney's singing stopped abruptly, and the next second she was standing in Meg's doorway. "Don't you remember?" she asked, her eyes serious.

Meg tugged at her neckline and grimaced. This was not very comfortable. "Not a thing."

Whitney sank down on the bed and patted the space next to her. "You fell asleep on the couch."

"With guests in the house?" Meg buried her face in her hands. Some hostess she'd been; it'd be a wonder if Harvard ever spoke to her again. She pressed her fingers into her eyes, feeling very hypocritical. She'd been the one to tell Harvard that under no circumstances would she even think about being more than his friend, and now she was obsessing about his reaction to a little rudeness. She must have lost half her brain on the way home from that dratted choir concert.

"Charley offered to drag you to your room when we got back, but Harvard pretty much told him he wasn't strong enough and carried you to bed himself. It was very sweet," she added when Meg's head shot up.

She blinked at Whitney a few times, wishing that she could remember. Whitney just smiled at her innocently and nudged her with her shoulder. "He was very cute with you," she told Meg. "He looked like he was carrying the most precious thing in the world."

"Oh, please," Meg groaned, and flopped back to lie on the bed. "I think you've been reading too many fairy tales."

A guilty look crossed Whitney's face. "What's wrong with a little happily-ever-after?" she asked defensively. "I like to dream as much as the next girl."

Meg's hand rubbed Whitney's back. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm just . . . I don't know."

"In denial?" Whitney looked over her shoulder with a sympathetic smile. "It must stink to be in love with the only man in the world that my mother wants to get her daughter's claws into. It'll all work out, though. It always does."

"I'm not in love with Harvard, or anyone else."

Whitney just looked at her for a long second before she walked back to the kitchen. Meg was still muttering about fairy tales again when they drove to the mall an hour later. Whitney hummed to herself and pretended not to hear.

Over the next few days Meg watched Harvard. Well, she watched him walk in and out of Charley's dress shop several times a day. Each time he walked in front of her store he'd flash her a smile and wink, and then he'd hurry past without a word.

It was rather irritating.

When she and Whitney rolled into her parking space Thursday morning she was almost ready to corner him and demand to know what was going on. The last time she'd checked he and Charley weren't exactly friends, so to have them suddenly joined at the hip with no obvious explanation was a little perplexing.

Unfortunately, Mamie was sitting behind the cash register when the two girls came through the door, and Meg's heart dropped slightly. She'd been hoping for at least two more Mamie-free days. Things went so much smoother when she was on one of her sabbaticals.

"Where have you been?" Mamie barked, her gaze focused on Whitney. "Brittany says you haven't been home all week."

"I've . . . " Whitney stood in the doorway, one arm still in her jacket. She looked frantically toward Meg.

"You've what?"

Whitney took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and looked her mother in the eye. The effect was ruined slightly by the jacket that was still half-on her, but she didn't back down. "I moved in with Meg."

Mamie sucked in a breath harsh enough to rival a dementor's and slowly turned her face toward Meg, who sighed inaudibly.

"I should have known it would be you, Meg Bailey." Mamie's voice was as quiet as Meg had ever heard it, and the sound made her shiver. "I don't know what makes you think you can corrupt my daughter and assume you can get away with it."

"I didn't corrupt anyone!"

Mamie leaned toward her slightly, her eyes narrowing. "My child belongs with me, in my house, not in some slapped-together excuse for a – "

"You obviously haven't seen Meg's house." Whitney finally shrugged out of her jacket and glared at her mother. "And I don't belong in your house. I'm an adult; I can do whatever I please. Meg has been kind enough to take me in, and I'm staying."

Mamie completely ignored her daughter, and her eyes flashed with something scary in them as she slowly rose to her feet. Meg took an involuntary step backward. To her surprise, Mamie didn't say a word about Whitney's current living arrangements. "I've purchased another shoe store," she proclaimed, watching Meg intently. "Since you did such an excellent job in cleaning the last property, you might as well work on this one tonight after the mall closes."

Meg stared back at Mamie defiantly and had opened her mouth to tell her that cleaning was her favorite thing in the world when someone cleared his throat loudly from the still-closed gate.

Harvard's jaw flexed tightly, but his voice was calm when he spoke to Mamie through the bars. "Excuse me, Ms. Steppe. May I have a word?"

A huge, fake smile spread across Mamie's face, and she hissed at Meg out of the corner of her mouth. "Open the gate, Meg Bailey." She rearranged her blouse as Meg passed, fortunately not seeing Whitney roll her eyes.

Harvard waited until Meg had unlocked the gate, then he bent down and helped her lift it into the ceiling. He smiled at her tightly and walked behind her to where Mamie stood impatiently.

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with Miss Bailey as I passed your store," he said smoothly. His tone was cool, and Meg was reminded of the first time she'd met him. "Am I correct in assuming that you asked her to stay after closing to clean another property?"

Mamie's smile faltered a little. "She volunteered," she said, a little too quickly.

"I see." His jaw tightened again, like he was grinding his teeth together. Meg made a mental note to give him the name of her dentist. She'd hate for him to waste all the money she was sure his parents had spent on dental work.

"It's really too bad Brittany's not here," Mamie said sorrowfully in a vain attempt to change the subject. "I know she's been looking forward to seeing you again."

Harvard looked pained, and his eyes drifted to Meg's. She edged a little closer to him before she realized what she was doing, and the faintest of smiles ghosted across his face. "I'm sure she'll survive."

Meg coughed into her hand to mask her snicker. "Are you all right, Miss Bailey?" Harvard sounded concerned, but Meg could see the twinkle in his eyes as he gazed down at her. "Perhaps you should go home and rest. I'd hate for one of Ms. Steppe's invaluable employees to catch a cold."

"Oh, don't bother worrying about her." Mamie waved dismissively in Meg's direction. "She never gets sick. She's so healthy she never even needs to take a lunch break."

She must have known immediately what she'd said because she giggled nervously and flapped her hands in the air. "What I mean is – "

All the humor was gone from Harvard's eyes, and he took another step toward Mamie. "Did you just say that your employees never get their breaks? I've noticed that you usually only have two people working in the shop at a time, but I assumed you were following the law. Perhaps I should have my lawyer check into this."

Mamie visibly blanched. "Meg can take a break whenever she wants," she squeaked. Her voice was even higher than usual. "I'm not breaking any laws."

Harvard nodded once. "Then I expect to see all your employees, including Miss Steppe," he nodded in Whitney's direction, "take full advantage of that. I'm assuming they don't work every day; when is their next day off?"

Meg watched in delight as Mamie floundered. "Day off? Um . . . well . . . not today, obviously." She giggled again, but this time it sounded strained, like she was forcing the air out of her lungs.

Harvard crossed his arms over his chest and waited expectantly.

"Tomorrow," Mamie finally said. Her shoulders drooped in defeat. "They have the entire day off tomorrow."

"So that's standard? Every Friday, both Miss Bailey and Miss Steppe are not scheduled to come in?"

Smiling tightly, Mamie nodded once. "It is. If you'll excuse me, I have some things I need to do in the back." She whirled around on her heel and disappeared behind the door. It shut behind her with a loud bang.

Meg and Whitney stared at Harvard in disbelief. "Are you Santa Claus?" Meg finally asked, keeping her voice low so Mamie wouldn't be able to hear.

Finally relaxing, Harvard grinned at her. He looked extraordinarily pleased with himself. "If I tell you that I am, will you sit on my lap?"

Meg tried to glower at him but was too shocked by what had just happened to make it convincing. "I'm too old to sit on Santa's lap," she retorted before shooting him a sly smile. "But you're never too old for this." Then she stepped forward, threw her arms around him, and squeezed tight.

Harvard stood frozen for three tenths of a second before his arms went around her. He didn't squeeze nearly as tight, but she could feel the warmth from his hands seeping through her blouse. He didn't seem to want to let go when she tried to pull away. "Need I remind you that Mamie's twenty feet away?" she asked, tilting her head to the side and looking up at him.

He blinked twice and, reluctantly, she thought, dropped his hands to his sides. "If all it takes to get you to hug me is to finagle you a day off work, I'll make sure I do it again." He cleared his throat and stuck a finger in his collar, tugging it away from his neck. "I'd better be going. I'll see you two later."

Then, with one final glance at Meg, he almost sprinted out the door and down the hallway.

*** *** ***

Harvard was going to need a heart transplant.

With one single, innocent touch Meg had made the one currently residing in his chest hammer so hard it nearly punched a hole in his ribs.

Not that he was complaining, but he kind of liked his ribs in one piece. Maybe what he really needed was a titanium ribcage.

He finally slowed his steps when he reached the atrium in the middle of the mall and sank onto the ledge surrounding the fountain. He stared at the pennies lying in the water and wondered if he'd get in trouble if he ducked his head under and yelled.

He wasn't angry or anything. He just had an awful lot of energy all of a sudden, and there was no good way to get rid of it – short of running a mini-marathon, and the Crim wouldn't be for another three months. Of course, he could always kiss Meg senseless, but he didn't think she'd appreciate that nearly as much as he would – which was why he'd left in such a rush.

So now she was going to regret her impulsive action and would most likely run in the opposite direction the next time she saw him coming. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. Mission Meg was going to kill him before he'd even started it properly.

The mall owners were opening their doors when he finally made his way back toward The Glass Slipper, and he ducked into Charley's shop before he could get sidetracked. "Grimm!" he called, dodging around dresses that appeared to be more lace than substance. "Grimm!"

Charley emerged from his labyrinthine back room. "Yes, Kingston? You bellowed?"

Harvard grinned at him and crossed his arms over his chest. "What are you doing tomorrow night?"

Charley pushed aside several frothy confections to make room for the one had slung over his arm. "Working on my summer order, unless Meg invites me over to dinner."

Harvard felt a momentary twinge of jealousy before he shoved it to the back of his mind. "I happen to know that Meg and Whitney have the entire day off, and . . . "

The dress fell to the ground with an unceremonious swish, but Charley didn't seem to care. "What? Meg never gets an entire day off! Are you yanking me around?"

"Now, now, Grimm," Harvard scolded. He was secretly enjoying watching Charley gape at him. "I happened to be passing Meg's shop – "

"Meaning you were stalking her again. She's going to catch on to you eventually, you know – "

"And I _happened_ to overhear Mamie try to make her clean yet another shoe store."

Charley's mouth fell open. "Another store? Has Squeaky bought herself another one?"

Harvard leaned against the counter. "I imagine so. Does she have a Swiss bank account no one knows about, or is she married to a sugar daddy?"

They both shuddered and grimaced. "Lord help us all if that's the case," Charley said fervently. "How come I haven't heard anything until now?"

Shrugging, Harvard picked up the gown and tossed it to Charley, who caught it automatically. "Beats me. I thought you were the gossip guru around here. If it makes you feel any better, both Meg and Whitney seemed surprised, too."

The two of them were quiet for a minute. Harvard could only guess at Charley's thoughts, but his own kept drifting back to the way Meg had thrown her arms around him like he was the best thing since movable type was invented. He wondered how he could get her to do it again.

Charley finally cleared his throat and eyed Harvard beadily. "How exactly did you convince Mamie to give them the same day off? I can see her doing it for Whitney, but Meg . . . I secretly think she wants to get her so mad she just up and quits."

"Why doesn't she?" Harvard had been wondering this for a long time. He just hadn't had the guts to ask Meg.

The way Charley rolled his eyes implied that he'd asked her that same question before – and hadn't received a good answer. "If you can figure that out you two are meant for each other. You still haven't answered my question, by the way."

Harvard smiled in a very Cheshire-cat sort of way. "Mamie let it slip that Meg never gets a lunch break, and I pounced on that before she could backpedal. So now they each have an hour for lunch and every Friday off."

Charley stared at him wordlessly, his mouth hanging open again. Then he thumped his partner in crime on the back with so much enthusiasm that Harvard was afraid he'd be knocked into a dressmaker's dummy. "You, my dear Kingston, are a genius." They smiled at each other conspiratorially. "I think it's about time to put the next phase of Operation Whitney in motion, don't you think?"

"Quest Whitney," Harvard corrected automatically.

He drew himself up as tall as he could while Charley laughed himself silly. "Quest sounds nobler," Harvard said loftily. "Operation Whitney sounds like you're going to cut her open and examine her innards."

Finally getting himself under control, Charley hung the dress he'd been holding on a hook next to the cash register. To Harvard's surprise it didn't look terribly wrinkled. "I'm the one chasing her, so I get to name it," Charley stated with a smirk. "And I'm calling it Operation Whitney, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Uninformed."

Harvard sighed in defeat. "It's your semantic funeral, Grimm. Now, how are we going to go about this? I'll run into Meg in the food court – "

"I don't think so." Charley rolled his eyes. "Patience, man. You'll get to eat with her tomorrow. I know how to guilt Meg into doing things. You don't."

"I don't want her to go out with me out of guilt."

Charley looked like he was biting his tongue. "Fine. I know how to _convince_ Meg to do things. What are you, a thesaurus? All you have to do is make the dinner reservations and be at their place by five tomorrow evening. Do you think you can handle that?"

Maybe working with Charley wasn't such a good idea after all, Harvard mused. He was one of the most obnoxious people he'd ever met. "I can make dinner reservations in my sleep," he retorted loftily. "It's you I'm not sure about."

Charley grinned slowly. "Oh, don't worry about me," he said. "Meg can't resist me when I pull the Precious Moments face."

"What?" Harvard was beginning to think that Charley had been repeatedly whacked in the head with a dull object as a child. He half hoped it'd been Meg's foot.

"The face. She has one that I can't resist, and vice versa."

As far as Harvard was concerned, Meg had a lot of faces he couldn't resist. That, in a nutshell, was really the problem. If she wasn't so ridiculously kind and honest (and beautiful – he'd have to take cover during the next thunderstorm if he didn't admit that he found her too attractive for her own good) then he could go on his merry little way like nothing unusual existed in the mall.

"Go ahead and call the restaurant. Meg and Whitney'll be ready for us to pick them up."

Harvard heaved a sigh and turned to go, but a sudden thought made him turn around before he took two steps. "Are you sure about this restaurant?" he asked suspiciously. "Or are you just choosing it for the name? It seems a little . . . creepy."

Charley had the grace to look uncomfortable. "It's a great place," he retorted. "I took Meg there before prom, and it was stunning. The architecture alone is enough to get the romantic juices pumping."

"I'm not eating romantic, Grimm. How's the food?"

Charley just waved at him dismissively. "You worry too much, Kingston. It'll be perfect. You'll see."

Harvard left the shop shortly after that.

He wished he could have convinced Charley to let him have lunch with Meg.

*** *** ***

Mamie stormed around the store all morning, muttering words under her breath that Meg was glad she couldn't hear and yanking boxes off the shelves in the back room only to jam them, half opened, somewhere else.

Meg would have found it funny to watch a grown woman throw a temper tantrum if Mamie had been shooting daggers at anyone else. Well, maybe not Whitney . . .

"You'll have to find someone to work for you every Friday," Mamie finally snapped. She was practically frothing at the mouth. "I'm not making Brittany work all day long."

For the first time Meg thought she understood what Whitney's home life had been like. "You made Whitney work every day," she reminded her coolly.

Mamie made a disgusted noise that Meg was sure wouldn't have come out if Harvard had been within earshot. "Brittany's very delicate. She shouldn't be made to work long hours for plebeians who don't know the difference between a sandal and an espadrille."

Technically, Meg thought, they were in the same category, but this didn't really seem like the time to remind her boss. She was also slightly amazed that Mamie knew the meaning of the word 'plebeian'. Hadn't she thought the same thing about Brittany a few weeks before? The idea that the Steppe women weren't nearly as dumb as she'd thought made her uneasy.

"Which store did you purchase this time?" Meg asked, running through a mental list of all the shoe stores in the mall.

"Soles. The owners sold it to me for a song."

Meg winced. Mrs. Sherman had been one of her mother's good friends. Was Mamie single-handedly trying to take over the footwear industry? And how was she getting the money for this? She knew from first-hand experience that buying a business wasn't cheap.

"She was just like your father – anxious to move on."

Meg opened her mouth to say something that she was sure she'd regret later, but Whitney stopped her. "Do you care who works on Fridays?" Whitney's quiet voice surprised Mamie, and her head swiveled around to stare at her youngest daughter.

"If anyone steals anyone from me . . . "

Whitney scrunched up her face but didn't back down. "We can't get someone hired by tomorrow, you know."

"You will."

Drawing herself up to her full height – Meg hadn't realized exactly how tall Whitney was – she stared at her mother defiantly. "We can't. You'll have to drag your precious Brittany here tomorrow and you'll both have to wait on . . . what did you call them again? Oh, right. The plebeians. We'll have people here by next Friday."

Mamie glared at her. Then she made an inarticulate noise in her throat that sounded like a muffled yelp, grabbed her purse, and stormed out the back door. A few seconds later they heard her car roar to life, and then it was silent.

Whitney sank into a chair, looking dazed. "I can't believe I just did that," she said. "I actually stood up to my mother."

Meg dodged around the boxes Mamie had left on the floor and knelt beside her friend. "Twice in one day. Are you okay?"

Whitney's eyes were fierce. "I've never felt better in my life." She paused and absently ran a hand through her hair. ""Please tell me that you can find a couple of people to work by next week."

Grinning, Meg sat back on her heels. "I could've for tomorrow, but you were on a roll and I didn't want to mess up your momentum." Whitney rolled her eyes, and the corners of her mouth quirked up slightly. "No, really. Lexie's mom used to work for us a few days a week, and I know she has a few friends who are interested in part-time work. The fact that they'll get shoe discounts won't hurt any."

Whitney slumped back in her chair and exhaled. "That's good."

A noise in the front room make Meg's head pop up. "Who's watching the shop?" They stared at each other for half a second before both of them bolted through the door.

An hour later Meg was standing outside The Glass Slipper, waiting for Charley. He'd popped his head in when she was busy with a customer and told her that if she waited for him by her window display at noon he'd treat her to pizza for lunch.

So there she stood, loitering outside her own shop. She traced the outline of her grandmother's slippers with one finger and sighed. She wondered if they felt as fabulous as they looked, and leaned her head against the cool glass.

"Penny for your thoughts."

Meg turned her head without raising it from the window. "Hey, Harvard."

He regarded her silently, eyebrows lifted, for a few seconds. "Are you okay, or are you trying to ooze your way into that display through some sort of weird osmosis?"

She turned her head back to look, unseeing, at the slippers. "Thanks for getting me a day off every week. And lunch. Again, I really appreciate it."

Harvard leaned his head down beside hers. "Was Mamie that bad?"

She smiled faintly at him. "You're pretty good at picking up nonverbal signals. What makes you think Mamie was nasty?"

Snorting, Harvard shrugged. "I know enough about her to know that if she doesn't get her way she's going to be a royal pain in the – " He glanced at her and cleared his throat. "Anyway. That she's liable to be very unpleasant."

Meg stifled a laugh. Either he was usually very careful with his language, or his mother had drilled proper manners into him as a child. She rather thought the second was the case. "You're good. But I don't care how horrible she gets. I now have Fridays off – "

"Don't forget lunch."

"And lunch, and that's enough to keep me happy for a long time." She sighed and straightened back up. "Were you angry before?"

Harvard stared at her blankly. "Why would I be angry?"

She shrugged uncomfortably. "Well, I hugged you and then you took off like I was a carrier for the bubonic plague."

Harvard's face fell flush against the window and he laughed so hard condensation formed on the window. "Nothing could be farther from the truth," he gasped finally. "Please, feel free to hug me anytime the urge strikes."

Meg eyed him skeptically. "If you say so. Again, thanks. I owe you one."

Harvard's grin was almost wicked. "I'll remember that."

"Are you flirting with me?"

"No." Harvard's answer was quick, but he sounded a little uncertain. "Not at all."

"Kingston!"

Harvard's body twitched, and he made a face. "Yes, Grimm?"

Meg looked between Charley and Harvard. "Since when have you two been on a last-name basis?"

Ignoring her, Charley gave Harvard a stern look. "Thanks for keeping Meg occupied for me, Kingston," he said in a voice that Meg could only describe as snooty. "Don't you have a meeting or something to go to?"

Harvard muttered something under his breath that Meg couldn't catch before glancing guiltily in her direction. "Goodbye, Meg. Have a good lunch. I'm sure I'll see you around."

Meg let Charley lead her toward the food court but she glanced over her shoulder at Harvard as they went. He looked almost . . . forlorn.

"So what's up?" she asked after they'd started eating.

"What do you mean?"

Meg leaned forward so her hands were protecting her slice of pizza. She knew how Charley got at lunchtime. "I mean, how did you know I had a lunch break? You couldn't possibly know what happened at the shop this morning."

Charley took a gulp of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Actually, I do. I heard it from Kingston."

It was the tone in Charley's voice that made Meg suspicious. He sounded like he was trying too hard to conceal something. "Is that so."

Charley suddenly found the napkins lying on the table between them very interesting. "Yep. He walked past me just as I was opening this morning. How's your pizza?"

Meg wasn't swayed by his attempt at changing the subject. "What are you and Harvard up to?" she demanded. "The last time I checked the two of you were barely civil to each other."

Charley opened his mouth, and then closed it with a calculating click of his jaws. He glanced around to make sure no one was listening. "I needed some help on a special project, and he agreed when I asked him."

This wasn't making any sense, Meg thought in bewilderment. In her limited experience with boys, they only called each other by their last names when the wanted to get a rise out of someone. Or when they were playing football, but that was different. They slapped each other on the behind then, and thought it perfectly normal. "And you didn't come to me because . . . "

Charley leaned over the table, completely ignoring Meg's pizza, and grabbed her hand. "I need your help, too, Meggie. But I had to check with him first."

Meg sat there and waited with raised eyebrows.

Heaving a deep sigh, Charley sat back in his seat. "I want to ask Whitney out on a date but I don't want to go by myself. I know, I'm a big boy," he added when she rolled her eyes, "but I knew that if I asked you to come, too, you'd feel like a third wheel. So I asked Kingston if he'd come along to kind of even things out, and when he told me you both had tomorrow night off . . . " He let his voice trail off hopefully.

Meg squinted at him. "You've never been too nervous to go on a date by yourself before," she pointed out.

"My dates have never had the voice of an angel before."

Meg quickly took a gulp of her drink to hide her smirk. She'd suspected that Charley had feelings of some sort for Whitney; she just hadn't expected him to be so smitten. At least, not so fast. "I'm not dating Harvard," she finally said. "I don't want him to get the wrong idea."

"Just think of it as dual chaperonage."

"Charley . . . "

He looked at her pleadingly, the same way he had years before when he'd wanted her to climb onto her roof with him when they were in the fourth grade. She hadn't been able to resist him then, either – even though it had cost her a broken arm and twelve stitches.

"Please? I promise I'll make it up to you."

Sighing, she rested her head on her hand. "Okay. But only because I love you, and Whitney deserves to go out with someone who'll treat her right."

"And someone who can string more than three words together at a time."

Meg cracked a small smile. "I'm guessing you don't think you'll be able to do that on your own."

"I know I can't."

Laughing, Meg shook her head at him. "You should feel lucky that I like you both so much."

He smirked and pointed a finger in her direction. "I think you like Harvard more than you're willing to let on, and you're secretly looking forward to this."

The smile that had found its way to Meg's face just seconds before faltered. "I don't . . . "

Charley slapped the table with his hands and started gathering his trash. He seemed very smug. "We'll be at your place tomorrow at five. And wear something nice."

Annoyed, Meg slammed her cup on her tray harder than she'd intended. She wasn't sure if she was more irritated at his suggestion or his assumption that he was right. "Nice? Whatever happened to casual and comfortable for a first date?" she asked pointedly. "Especially since your two chaperones aren't dating each other."

Charley just grinned at her. "I can't help myself."

"Well, where are we going?"

His grin widened even farther. "The Whitney."

*** *** ***

Meg rubbed her eyes and yawned. It was Friday morning, she'd slept until ten o'clock, and she didn't have anywhere she had to be.

She wasn't sure what to do with herself.

As soon as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes she knew she'd feel very out of sorts.

Whitney was in the kitchen when Meg stumbled in. "Good morning," she said quietly. "I was starting to think you were going to sleep through our date this evening."

"It's not a date," Meg corrected automatically. Then, catching Whitney's crestfallen expression, she shook herself. "What I mean is that it's not a date for me. I'm just coming because . . . "

"Because Harvard asked you?"

Well, that wasn't really the case but she wasn't sure how to tell Whitney the truth. Charley had made her sit at the table in the food court while he talked to Whitney by himself, and she wasn't sure what he'd told her. "Something like that," she said evasively.

This fortunately seemed to satisfy her friend. "So what are you wearing?"

Maybe Whitney and Charley were a better match than she thought. They both seemed to have this fascination with clothes. "I don't know," she said vaguely. "I haven't really thought about it."

The kitchen was silent as Meg stuffed a piece of bread in the toaster and leaned against the counter to wait. She yawned again. Getting up late was simply not all it was cracked up to be. She'd already wasted half the morning.

"I've never been on a proper date before."

Whitney's words snapped Meg out of her toaster-watching stupor. "What?"

She shrugged. "A few boys asked me out in high school, but Brittany always found out before I could go."

Meg could only imagine how Brittany would have behaved. She would have hated for someone to pay more attention to her little sister than they did to her. "I see. You never tried to sneak out?"

Whitney shrugged again. "I never really liked the guys that asked, and it didn't seem worth all the trouble it'd cause if Mamie found out what I'd done."

She had a point there, Meg thought. "I guess it's good then that Harvard and I are coming to keep an eye on the two of you. You sound scared, and Charley's worried that he won't have anything intelligent to say."

Whitney almost cracked a smile at that. "Maybe I should calm down a little."

Meg laughed around her bite of toast. "Maybe you should. I think Charley's nervous enough for the both of you."

An hour later Meg stuffed her clothes in the basement washer and wandered up to the first floor of the house. She hadn't been in Arthur's section of the house since he'd driven off to Florida, and it was fairly obvious that no one was living there on a regular basis. It smelled dusty and neglected.

She walked slowly from room to room, letting her fingers trail across surfaces that they used to touch every day. It felt strange to be back, knowing that no one was there.

Arthur hadn't changed anything since her mother had died, and she smiled to herself when she caught sight of her graduation picture sitting on an end table in the family room. There she stood, sweltering in a cap and gown in the sun, with her smiling parents on either side of her. It had been a hot day, especially for Michigan, and they all looked rather sticky. Proud, but sticky. She wasn't sure which had been the greater relief that afternoon – the fact that she was finished with college, or that she was finished with the gown.

She ambled through the house twice before sighing and veering off to the mud room for a rag. If Alice had seen her house this dusty she'd probably have had a coronary. Meg had just opened the cupboard when her phone rang.

"Hey, dad," she said. She was surprised by how cheerful her voice was.

"Hey, sweetie. How's work today?"

Meg grinned involuntarily. She talked to Arthur once a week or so, and every time she did he sounded a little more . . . content. Maybe not happy, yet, but at least he was sounding more like his old self.

"I forgot you haven't heard," she said, and proceeded to tell him about the uproar from the day before. Arthur was suitably impressed.

"That Princeton guy sounds like he knows what he's doing," he said. "I think you should keep him around."

"Harvard, Dad. Not Princeton."

Arthur chuckled. "Sorry. So what are you doing on your day off?"

Swiping the rag across the top of the piano, Meg made a face. "Cleaning your house. It's a dust bunny's dream come true."

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. "I believe that. You know, Meggie, I'm not sure I feel comfortable with you in that house all by yourself. I know you have a roommate," he added, "and I don't know about Whitney, but you at least aren't quite . . . aren't quite . . . "

"Scary?" Meg thought she knew where this was going. Arthur may have left in a rush, but every time they talked he made her promise to be smart and stay on her guard.

Arthur laughed uncomfortably. "I always told your mother we should have enrolled you in judo rather than all those social dance classes. If someone comes up behind you all you can do is triple-step them."

"That's not true," Meg protested. "Charley's not that far away – "

"And I'm sure some creep would give you the time to call for backup, and then wait around for your skinny friend to trip over his own feet while he ran up the stairs."

Meg couldn't keep from laughing. He'd pegged Charley perfectly. "Well, he'd try his darndest to keep us safe."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Arthur muttered. "I'd just feel better knowing someone was living in that house. Maybe I should rent it out to a police officer for a few months, until I get back home."

At least he was still calling Michigan home, Meg thought. "When do you think you'll come back?"

Arthur hesitated. "I don't know, sweetie," he said finally. "I want to be home by August at the latest. Are you doing okay? You'd tell me if there was a problem, wouldn't you?"

Meg leaned her head on the wall and stood there for a long time without saying a word. "Meg?"

"Yeah, I'm here." She closed her eyes. "I'm fine. Whitney keeps me company, and Charley makes sure I don't do anything stupid." Except chaperone his dates, she added silently. "I miss you, though."

"I miss you, too. You should come down for a visit sometime."

Arthur had obviously missed the whole I-get-one-day-off-a-week discussion, but Meg was tired of reminding him of that. "I'll see what I can do."

After she got off the phone she sank to the floor in front of the piano, rested her head against the bench, and cried until she could hardly breathe.

*** *** ***

Charley arrived ten minutes early that evening. Harvard was conspicuously absent. Meg just looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"He's already downtown. He had to meet with his lawyer at the last minute."

Meg sighed and rolled her shoulders unconsciously. Was there anyone in the world anymore that didn't have a lawyer? Maybe she was more old-fashioned than she'd thought.

"Don't worry, though," Charley said, trying surreptitiously to look over her head. "He's totally stoked about our date tonight."

"I thought we weren't on – "

"_My_ date," he amended hastily. "Kingston is just . . . " His voice trailed off.

Meg stared at an open-mouthed Charley for a few seconds before she heard Whitney. "Hello, Charley."

Smirking, Meg reached up and closed his mouth for him. He swallowed once before grinning down at her. "Your date doesn't hold a candle to mine. He's too tall for me." He stepped around her and offered his arm to a blushing Whitney. "Shall we go?"

The ride into downtown Detroit was . . . interesting, Meg decided. For a man who'd professed to jittery nerves only the day before, Charley was a model of charm and relaxation.

And he talked the whole way down. She watched his face in the rearview mirror, and the longer they drove the more suspicious she became. She knew Charley almost better than she knew herself, and she had the sinking feeling that he was up to something underhanded – like concocting a mad scheme for him and Harvard to get dates for the evening.

Charley caught her eye in the mirror and raised his eyebrows at her before returning to his shameless flirtation. Meg groaned silently and tried to sink further into the backseat.

Charley must have felt guilty for ignoring her, because a few minutes later he spoke over his shoulder. "Have you heard from your dad recently?"

"He called this afternoon. He seemed to think I wasn't safe living in the house with the main floor empty."

Meg watched as Charley's eyes flitted to Whitney. "And what did you say to that?"

She shrugged. "I told him you weren't far away." She paused for a second, smiling to herself as she remembered their conversation. "Then he muttered something about renting it out to a police officer."

Grimacing, Charley pulled into a parking spot and took the key out of the ignition. "I'm glad he thinks so highly of me," he said drily.

Meg was shaking her head as she walked slowly toward the restaurant, trailing behind Whitney and Charley. She slowed her steps and smiled when Whitney saw the name of the restaurant. Charley grinned at her and took her hand, tugging her up the walk. "It used to be a mansion," she heard him tell her, excitement lacing his voice. "It was owned by a guy whose last name was Whitney. Is that awesome or what?"

Meg stood there and observed them. She was tremendously glad that Charley had found someone that interested him, but it made her feel slightly unnecessary, almost like she was being left behind on the greatest adventure of all.

She glanced up and jumped when her eyes met Harvard's. He was only a foot away from her, watching her watch her best friend fall toward love.

He slowly reached out and touched her elbow. "Hello, Meg." His voice had a faint trace of understanding hidden in it. It made her wonder if he knew what she was thinking. The thought made her feel oddly better. "You look positively lovely. Thank you for coming tonight."

Taking a deep breath, Meg felt her shoulders relax. "No, thank _you_." She nodded her head in Charley's direction, and Harvard chuckled quietly next to her. "I was starting to feel a little redundant."

Harvard froze for a second before his hand slid down her arm until her fingers were held loosely in his. "You could never be redundant."

Meg smiled up at him and let him lead her into the restaurant.

Much to Meg's surprise, the dinner didn't go nearly as abominably as she'd expected. In fact, if she were being honest (and she was inclined to do just that), she hadn't had such a lovely time in years. They were seated in the Whitney's former library, surrounded by stained glass windows and leather-bound books that remained from the family's original collection, and she couldn't remember the last time she had laughed so much or so freely. Charley caught her eye from across the table at one point and smiled at her. His arm was slung over the back of Whitney's chair, and his eyes were alight with pleasure.

She sighed contentedly and leaned back in her seat. Harvard spun his water glass idly on the table, making the liquid inside swirl. It was almost dizzying.

"We never finished our discussion about your dad," Charley said suddenly. "What did he have to say?"

Meg shrugged and watched as the glass in Harvard's hands came to an abrupt halt. "He said he's feeling happier, but he probably won't be home until the end of the summer." She tilted her head back to look up at the ceiling. "And, of course, the police thing."

"What police thing?"

Meg glanced at Harvard without lowering her head. He seemed strangely fascinated with her chin. "He thinks we're not safe enough," she explained.

His earlier irritation obviously forgotten, Charley leaned over and smirked at her. "And he wants her to find a police officer to live with her."

Harvard's arm twitched, and the next thing Meg knew the water in his glass was dripping from her lap.

He stared at her for a heartbeat before wordlessly handing her his handkerchief. Then he buried his face in his hands.

*** *** ***

Meg watched as Whitney fiddled with the hand dryer in the ladies' room. "I don't think it's going to turn that far around," she noted. "This is an old building, remember? They didn't really want the thing to be wrenched around."

Sighing, Whitney gave up and turned to her. "Did you at least manage to get most of the water out?"

Meg glanced down at her dress and laughed. "I won't drip on the carpet, if that's what you mean." She walked over to the sink, wrinkling her nose at the feel of the wet material on her legs. "I hate that feeling," she said. "All cold and wet. It's like I've been slobbered on by a Great Dane."

Whitney leaned against the counter. She stared off into space for a long time. "What's up?" Meg asked.

"I was just thinking."

Meg looked at her friend closer. She was twisting her ring around her finger and shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "About . . . "

The fidgeting sped up. "Charley."

Ah, thought Meg. That didn't take very long. "What about him? You like him, don't you?"

Whitney's ring fell to the floor. She was flushed when she stood back up. "Yeah . . . "

Meg raised her eyebrows. "What's the problem?"

Whitney was quiet for a long time, and when she finally spoke she was whispering. "Is he . . . is he . . . "

This was going to take forever. "He's not in love with me, if that's what you're asking."

"Oh! Um, no, I wasn't worried about that. I was just thinking he might be . . . might be . . . "

Meg sighed and moved to stand beside her. "Just spit it out, Whitney."

She took a deep breath, screwed her eyes shut, and blurted out, "Is he _gay_?"

Meg burst out laughing so hard she doubled over, clutching her stomach. Some unfortunate woman, choosing that moment to open the restroom door, took one look at Meg and backed out, her eyes wide with panic. Meg wondered how long it would take her the call someone official to check out the situation.

Whitney's mouth opened and closed several times before she finally settled on something to say. "I can't decide if you're laughing because he's gay, and I've been blissfully ignorant, or if he's not and he'd die if he found out I thought he might be."

It took Meg a minute more before she was able to calm down enough to answer. "He's not gay," she said, wiping her eyes. "Although I can see why you might think he was. He's more of a metro sexual than anything else."

Nodding thoughtfully, Whitney gazed off into the distance. "That would explain a lot."

Meg glanced at her out of the corner of her eye while she was checking her mascara. "If you're interested, I happen to know he's available. And interested in girls," she added, just to make sure Whitney understood.

The smile on Whitney's face glowed. "That's good to know." She patted her hair, straightened her blouse, and stood up straight. "Come on. If we stay in here much longer Harvard's going to think you've fallen into the toilet."

*** *** ***

Harvard had never felt so humiliated in his life.

Here he was, on a date with the girl of his dreams (the fact that she didn't think they were on a date bothered him, but he was willing to overlook that in the name of social felicity), and what did he do?

He dumped ice cold water on her lap.

He stared at the offending glass in silence, wishing he could redo things. Heck, he didn't need water. He'd barely even touched it throughout their meal. "I don't know what happened," he muttered to himself. "The glass just tipped over in my hand like it had a will of its own."

Charley smirked even harder at him. "At least her skirt wasn't white."

Harvard glowered at him. "Shut up, Grimm."

"Anything you say, Mr. Tall, Dark and Graceful." Charley set it back upright and leaned his elbows on the table. "That's funny."

"What's funny?" If one more wisecrack came out of Charley's mouth he wouldn't be held responsible for his actions.

"The glass. It doesn't _look_ like it has a rounded bottom."

"Shut up, Grimm."

Charley's eyebrows rose slightly. "You're starting to repeat yourself, Kingston."

Harvard tried to calculate how much trouble he'd be in if he just stuffed the stupid thing in Charley's mouth. If it made him stop talking it might be worth it.

"Come on, man," Charley blathered on. Harvard watched his mouth move, and his fingers tightened convulsively around the glass. "It's not like Meg's going to call the cops on you for drenching her with water."

Harvard's eyes flew up to meet Charley's. "You weren't serious about that, were you? Does Meg's father really want to rent out his downstairs apartment?"

Shrugging, Charley leaned his chair back on two legs. "That's what she said. I don't know, though," he added after a few seconds. "Arthur's been very hands-off since his wife died. I don't know why he's concerned about Meg all of a sudden."

No wonder Meg didn't want to talk about her dad, Harvard thought with a pang. For all his faults, at least his own father cared enough to talk to him every day.

It occurred to him that perhaps he and Meg were at opposite ends of the parental spectrum. Hers were practically non-existent, whereas his wouldn't leave him alone to do his job in peace.

"I wonder," he said slowly, "how Mr. Bailey would feel about renting it out to someone else."

Charley slowly lowered the legs of his chair back to the floor. "I'm listening."

By the time the girls came back from the ladies' room, Harvard was feeling decidedly more optimistic.

*** *** ***

Harvard grasped Meg's hand when he walked her to his car. "Are you sad that Charley and Whitney decided to walk around the gardens for a while without us?" he asked quietly.

She shivered, and Harvard let go of her long enough to shrug out of his sports coat. She smiled as he draped it over her shoulders. "Not at all," she admitted. "It's kind of chilly out."

He glanced down at her still-damp skirt and grimaced. "I'm so sorry about that," he said, hoping that she wasn't getting tired of hearing those words coming from his mouth. "I didn't mean – "

Laughing, Meg bumped him with her shoulder as he leaned over to open her door. "Stop apologizing," she chided, sliding into the seat. "Really, it's okay." She glanced at him, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly. "It is kind of funny that I have your handkerchief again. I think I'll have to buy you another set after all."

Harvard thought about this as he walked around the car. As far as he was concerned, she could keep it. Maybe it was somehow influencing his actions around her.

Once they were back at her house, Harvard pushed Meg down the hall toward her bedroom. "Go change out of your wet things," he said. He hoped he didn't sound too pushy. "I'll be in the family room when you're done."

He wandered around the room, glancing at her pictures while he waited. There were a lot of Meg with an older couple. The woman had Meg's eyes, and he couldn't help smiling. In every picture, Meg was either smiling or laughing. He wondered how long it had been since she'd been that carefree.

Meg was hovering next to the couch when he finally turned around. She was watching him, a strange expression on her face. "I hope I'm not prying," he said, trying not to notice her legs. He didn't think he'd ever seen her in anything but a dress or a skirt, so to have her stand there in something with legs was a little disconcerting.

"You aren't." She sank down onto the couch and patted the cushion next to her. "You look tired."

"So do you. What did you do on your day off?"

She tilted her head back and laughed. "Promise not to make fun of me."

"Never." Harvard was surprised by the conviction in his voice.

She snuck a look at him, her cheeks flushing. "I was cleaning."

Harvard snorted. "You're kidding. Why didn't you do something relaxing? You clean all the time."

Shrugging, she leaned back into the cushions and propped her feet on the coffee table. "I went down to do my laundry and almost choked on the dust coming from the first floor. I couldn't just leave it like that."

Harvard watched her get settled into the couch before placing his own sock-clad feet on the table next to hers. The next time he looked at her her eyes were drowsy. "Why does it matter if there's a little dust down there? No one lives there right now."

"It bothers me," she said simply. "And anyway, if Dad really wants to rent it out it needs to be clean."

Harvard shifted uncomfortably. It was one thing to tell Charley that he could finagle a way into Meg's house; it was another thing altogether to actually do it. "Was he serious about that?" He stretched his arm over his head, feeling too obvious. It was like he was back in high school, taking a pretty girl to the movies. He wondered idly if Peggy Johnson had seen through his arm-stretching then.

Meg sighed. "I don't know. Maybe. I don't really want a detective or a police officer or a judo instructor living down there with all my mother's things, though."

Taking a deep breath, Harvard closed his eyes. She couldn't have left him a better opening if he'd written her a script for a bad sitcom. "How would you feel if the guy living down there was me?"

Meg blinked at him for a few seconds. "I thought you already had somewhere to live," she said.

He grimaced. "Yeah, a hotel room next to the mall. I know your dad'll be back at the end of the summer, but I'm only planning on needing temporary housing for a while."

"Why? Are you going to another property when you're done here?"

Harvard tore his eyes away from her, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. "Maybe . . . "

"Well, either you are or you aren't."

Now Harvard was starting to sweat. It wasn't like he could just come out and tell her why he was in Michigan, but he didn't want to lie, either. "My plans aren't entirely set yet, that's all. I should know more in July or August."

Meg thought about this for a minute, making Harvard wish that if he were lucky enough to gain a superpower, it'd be mind-reading. "I'd have to talk to Arthur first," she finally said. "It's his house, after all."

"I could call him for you." Harvard knew he sounded too eager, but the fact that she hadn't outright told him to stay in his hotel was enough to push the adrenaline through his veins. His fingers tightened involuntarily around her shoulder, and he inched her closer to his side.

"That might not be a bad idea." She yawned and rested her head against his arm. "I'll write his number down for you before you leave."

"You could just tell me now," he said hopefully. "I'm good at remembering numbers."

Half an hour later Meg was asleep, his arm was around her, and his cell phone was in his hand. His finger hovered over the call button when she placed her hand on his chest and smiled in her sleep.

If living in her downstairs apartment meant more evenings spent just like this, Harvard thought, he might just slow his work down to a crawl. He sighed contentedly and pushed the button.

"Hello, Mr. Bailey. This is Harvard Kingston. I know it's late . . . "


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

The phone was ringing when Meg pushed the shop door open the next morning. She tripped over several unidentifiable objects while trying to reach it, and was grumbling about light switches in obscure places when she finally grabbed the handset.

"Hello?" she gasped, kicking a foot ineffectively. She'd somehow managed to get it stuck in an empty shoe box.

"Hello, this is Lucy from the Warbling Bird Assisted Living Center. Is this The Glass Slipper?"

The box finally flew off her foot, landing in a pile of shoes against the wall. "Yes, it is," she said distractedly. Why was there a pile of shoes on the floor? "May I help you with something?"

"One moment, please." Lucy had a muffled conversation in the background, and Meg flipped on the light. She stared in disbelief at the sight in front of her.

Shoes of all shapes and sizes littered the floor, chairs were placed haphazardly against shelves, the mirror hanging over the cash register was crooked . . . either someone had vandalized the place or Mamie's tantrum had bled over into Friday's workday. Her eyes fell on the notepad next to the cash register. _Meg Bailey, make sure you clean this up._ Well, there was her answer.

"Ma'am?" The voice that spoke in her ear was raspy, like the gentleman speaking was old and on a ventilator. "I'm trying to find someone. Is Daisy in?"

If Meg had a dime for every old man that had called over the past few months she could buy the store outright and kick Mamie out. "I'm sorry," she sighed, "but we don't have any Daisys here."

The old man cackled loudly. He must have had his hearing aid turned up too high. "That's a good one, missy," he chortled. "No, I'm looking for Daisy Duke."

Meg opened and closed her mouth, and the old man laughed even louder. "It's not a joke," he gasped. "She's for real. She looks a little different, but her – "

The line was suddenly quiet, and Meg was starting to think that the guy'd either died or forgotten he was talking on the phone, when Lucy came back.

"I'm sorry," she said, sounding apologetic. "He kept pestering me to call and wouldn't take no for an answer. These guys can be really vicious when they don't get what they want," she added. "I shouldn't have given in; every time he gets excited like that his heart rate goes sky high."

"That's okay." Meg sighed. "We haven't opened yet, so we aren't busy." She glanced around the store and buried her head in her hands. "At least, not yet."

"Oh, good," Lucy said. "Are you sure no one named Daisy works there? It's just that I saw her leaving his room a few nights ago and she had on the _cutest_ shoes. When I asked her where she got them, I swear she said The Glass Slipper." She paused to take a much-needed breath. "Or maybe it was The Wedge. You know, the store in the mall with the funky employees? I can't remember."

Meg's head was spinning by the time Lucy had finished talking. "Believe me, no one named Daisy Duke has ever worked here. I should know. This place has been in my family my entire life." She looked around her trashed shop as she said this, realizing once again that was no longer true.

"Oh, well." Lucy didn't seem terribly upset by this. "I'll let Mr. Shumacher know that he's got his wires crossed again. He tends to get confused."

"I do not!" Mr. Shumacher hollered in the background.

"Now, now, sir. You aren't supposed to get all riled up."

The cackling was back in force. "I'll tell you what gets me all riled up."

Lucy sighed heavily. "I'd better go before he says something you don't want to hear. Sorry to bother you."

"No bother," Meg said faintly just as Lucy hung up.

She didn't move for what felt like an eternity, thinking about her strange conversation with Lucy and the confused Mr. Shumacher. She was pretty sure this guy wasn't the same one that had called the shop before. What were the odds of several different men of a certain age calling for people with ridiculous names?

Her head started to hurt, and she wasn't sure if it was from all the thinking or from the sight that met her every time she opened her eyes, so she shut them tight in a vain attempt to make it disappear. She knew this was terribly childish, but did it anyway on the off chance that when she opened them again the whole mess would be gone and she could pretend the last ten minutes hadn't happened. But when Whitney gasped behind her, she shook herself and tried to feel optimistic.

It didn't work.

"What happened in here?" Whitney stood in the half-open door, her eyes wide. "Did someone break into the store?"

Wordlessly Meg handed her the note Mamie had left. Whitney glanced down at it. When she looked back up at Meg, her eyes were flashing.

"How stupid can you be?" she cried, throwing her purse on the counter and glaring at the crooked shelves. "What kind of idiot would sabotage their own business? Oo, if Mamie were here right now I'd give her – "

"Give me what?" Meg and Whitney jumped at the sound of Mamie's voice. For what felt like the millionth time, Meg wondered how a woman so large could move around so silently when she wanted to. It was creepy.

Rather than backing down, which was what Meg was expecting, Whitney frowned fiercely at her mother. "Give you a piece of my mind. What were you _thinking_, Mother? You do realize that this place pays for all of Brittany's shopping binges?"

Mamie's eyes narrowed. "I own three shoe stores now, if you'll take the time to remember. And Brittany doesn't go on shopping binges. It's not her fault that she likes to look decent for her man."

Meg stifled a laugh. She could just see the expression on Harvard's face when he found out that he'd been claimed by Brittany.

"Meg Bailey! Why are you just standing there like a statue? Get to work! This place needs to be spotless at opening!"

"Then maybe you shouldn't have left it like this." Meg was surprised by how cool her voice was.

Mamie stalked into the shop, kicking boxes out of her way as she came closer to Meg. "I've had enough of your attitude," she hissed. "I'd keep my mouth shut if I were you. I haven't even addressed the way you've influenced my daughter yet."

"I don't have any influence over Whitney," Meg shot back. She couldn't remember ever being angrier at another human being, and that included the time Charley had dumped her boyfriend for her back in college. "She's a grown woman. If she feels that the world would be a better place if you lived in Antarctica, I'm not going to argue with her."

Mamie drew herself up as tall as she could. "I wouldn't say things like that if I were you," she warned, her voice dangerously low.

By this time Meg was too far in to give up now, figuring that if Mamie killed her on the spot at least she'd die knowing that she'd ticked the woman off. "Why? Are you so opposed to the truth?"

"You're fired."

Meg looked at her steadily for a few seconds before pulling her cell phone out of her pocket and scrolling through her contacts. "What do you think you're doing?" Mamie demanded. "Get out of my shop before I have you removed!"

It didn't take Meg long to find the person she needed, and she watched Mamie with detached amusement as she waited. "Hello, Cheryl? This is Meg Bailey, Charley's friend. Is his dad in?"

Mamie's eyes drew down into little snake-like slits as she realized what Meg was doing. "Hey, Mr. Grimm. I know it's early, but I need a bit of legal advice. You're familiar with the terms of Ms. Steppe's contract?"

She paused for a second. "Yeah, that's the one. Ms. Steppe just fired me, and I was wondering . . . It's not legal? Really?"

Mamie let out a shriek that nearly made the window display shatter and Meg said calmly into the phone, "It appears that Ms. Steppe has changed her mind. Thanks for the help, Mr. Grimm."

If looks could kill, Meg was sure she'd be a pile of Meg-shaped rubble by now. A red-faced Mamie turned on her heel but didn't move toward the door. Pointing at a defiant Whitney, she placed her free hand on her hip and snarled, "You are to forget all about Meg Bailey and do what you're told."

Whitney placed her own hands on her hips and leaned closer to her mother. "I'm staying where I am," she told her. "And for the first time in my life I'm going to do what I want rather than what you tell me."

"Like what?" Mamie obviously wasn't worried.

"I'm going to study to become a high school choir teacher."

Meg was so proud of her friend that she almost – almost, but not quite – missed the bark of laughter that burst out of Mamie's mouth. "You, a high school choir teacher? Don't be ridiculous. You can't even sing."

A muffled noise came from the wall adjoining Charley's shop and Meg rolled her eyes. She knew they were loud, but couldn't Charley keep his opinion to himself for ten seconds?

"She sings beautifully," Meg said mildly.

Mamie ignored this. "And you certainly can't play the piano."

Meg watched as a slow smile spread across Whitney's face. "Actually, I can. You didn't think I actually went to all those chess club meetings, did you?"

Aha, Meg thought. While Whitney hadn't been inspired to sneak around her mother's back because of a boy, she'd had no qualms about doing it for music. If Whitney had met Charley earlier, Meg wondered if her tune would have changed any.

Mamie flung the door to the back room open and stormed through, yelling over her shoulder, "_Clean up this mess!_"

Meg and Whitney stared at the empty doorway wordlessly until they couldn't hear Mamie cursing anymore. Then they glanced at each other in disbelief and shock and started to laugh so hard tears rolled down their cheeks.

Meg wasn't sure if the tears were from relief, anger, or shock.

Maybe it was a combination of the three.

*** *** ***

"Will you shut up?"

Harvard clapped a hand over Charley's mouth, holding a little tighter than necessary. What was wrong with this guy? It was almost like he'd never eavesdropped on someone before.

Charley stepped on Harvard's foot hard enough to make Harvard wince. "That woman just said my Whitney couldn't sing." He glowered at Harvard. "What would you do if she said that Meg was uglier than a pile of mud?"

He had a point there, Harvard thought, trying to rub the top of his foot inconspicuously against the back of his calf. "If you keep talking they're going to hear us," he hissed. "Do you want to get caught?"

Charley cocked his head toward the wall and listened hard. "I think she's gone," he said in a normal voice, moving toward the center of his store. "And before you get any ideas in your head about going over there to help clean up, Mr. Tall, Dark and Obsessive, I'd think again."

Harvard had, in fact, been glancing at the front door and calculating how long it would take him to casually saunter over and offer his assistance. "What makes you think I was going over there?" he asked, knowing his words weren't as sure as he would have liked.

There was no answer. "Well?"

Charley widened his eyes in fake innocence. "Oh, that wasn't rhetorical? You're too obvious for your own good, man. I'm telling you, you're turning into a stalker. Leave her alone for more than half a second. She's a big girl. She can take care of herself."

Scowling, Harvard crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the counter. "You weren't saying this last night when we talked about renting the first floor of her house. And she shouldn't have to take care of herself."

Charley rolled his eyes. "You've got it bad, Kingston. Just tell her that you're in love with her and get it over with."

"What makes you think I'm in love with her?"

The look Charley shot him said, quite plainly, _You're the worst liar in the state of Michigan, and that's saying a lot_. "Either you're in love with her or you're a stalker and I should call the cops. Which is it?"

"Shut up, Grimm."

Charley smirked and started arranging gowns on the rack next to the cash register. "You're starting to sound like a broken record."

Clearing his throat, Harvard pulled his tie a little looser and wondered, not for the first time since he'd set foot in the mall, why all of a sudden his shirt collars were tighter than usual. He knew for a fact that he hadn't gained any weight, yet every time he was feeling even the slightest bit uncomfortable he couldn't breathe.

It had to be some strange coincidence that Meg was always involved when that happened.

He hated coincidences.

"They took care of Mamie pretty effectively," Harvard said after watching Charley fuss with the lace on a gown for an eternity. "Did Meg really call your dad?"

Smirking, Charley shook his head. "He doesn't get into the office until ten. Meg knows this, but Mamie doesn't. Brilliant, huh?" He glanced at Harvard. "By the way, have you had a chance to talk to Meg about the apartment yet?"

Thinking that 'brilliant' was a very inadequate way to describe Meg, Harvard answered absently, "Yeah, I did. I even talked to Arthur last night. He wants you to call him before he gives me the go-ahead."

Charley snorted. "You move fast, Kingston."

Harvard rubbed the back of his neck. After all the talk of stalkers, he wasn't sure whether he should be flattered or not. "All you have to do is call the man and tell him I'm not going to burn down his house or get behind in rent. That's it."

Charley spun around to face him, his eyes flashing with something Harvard could only call warning. "And that you won't hurt his daughter. Don't forget that."

"I would never hurt Meg."

"You may not mean to, but what's she going to do once she's admitted that she's fallen for you and you jet off to another mall in another state, never to return? Meg's not going to follow you, Harvard. Her shop is here. The fact that she hasn't walked away from that hag that calls herself a shop owner should say something."

_Once she's admitted that she's fallen for you._ The words lodged themselves in Harvard's brain, and he slumped back against the counter and ran his hand through his hair. He had a ridiculous urge to grin like a love-sick fool.

"Stop that," Charley snapped. "You're making me sick, and I don't want to ruin a perfectly good gown with puke." He stalked around Harvard to grab a pair of scissors, giving him a few seconds to think. It wasn't nearly long enough.

Why was it so hard to keep a secret from these people? he wondered. Maybe it was something in the water. He'd make it a point not to swim in Lake Huron anytime soon. And anyway, it wasn't like he was planning on taking over the world one mall at a time. All he had to do, and it wasn't even that interesting to anyone but him (at least, not yet) was to talk to a bunch of people.

"I don't know how long I'm staying," he told Charley truthfully when he started snapping his scissors open and closed unnecessarily. "I told Meg that last night. And when I first walked through the doors of the Brothers Mall, I had every intention of leaving as soon as I could. But now . . . now it's growing on me."

Charley regarded him in silence for a long, long time – so long that the top button on Harvard's shirt was starting to dig into his larynx. "I don't doubt that. But Meg is like family to me."

The threat was only implied, but Harvard heard it loud and clear. He nodded once and looked Charley straight in the eye. "You have nothing to worry about," he said quietly once he'd popped open his collar so he could force some air into his lungs. "Believe me, I'd do anything for her."

The familiar strains of Darth Vader's theme came from Harvard's pocket, and he groaned. "I have to take this," he told Charley semi-apologetically. After all, it was a good way to get out of Charley's shop.

"Who's ticked you off enough to get that as their ringtone?" Charley was obviously holding back laughter.

Sighing, Harvard pulled his phone out of his pocket and stared at it morosely. "My father." He turned and walked out of the store before answering. Charley's guffaws followed him all the way into the hall, and he resisted the urge to turn around and throw the phone at him. "Hello, Mr. Kingston. You're up bright and early this morning."

Joseph harrumphed into the phone. "The party planner will be here in ten minutes," he said without preamble, sounding like he'd been dragged into the office three hours earlier than he'd wanted. "I need to know that things on your end are going well before she mails the invitations."

Harvard's eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head. He had an unholy hatred of parties of any sort. "Are you sure this is necessary, sir?" he asked, hoping he wasn't whining.

"Don't whine, son." Crap. He was. "Your mother has her heart set on this so we're doing it her way."

That, essentially, was at the heart of everything his father did. If Jillian got it into her head that they needed to throw three bashes for a bunch of strangers in an effort to make the company feel more human, then they did. Not for the first time, Harvard wished his mother had studied anything but public relations.

Of course, if she'd majored in early childhood education he didn't know how he would have made it into adolescence without being a total and complete wuss.

"Fine," he said curtly, and ran his free hand through his hair. "I'll be ready."

"Are you sure? You only have nine weeks."

Harvard knew exactly how many days – "What?" he blurted out. "I thought the last event wasn't scheduled until mid August."

The phone was quiet for a second or two longer than Harvard would have liked. "It was," he said slowly, "but your mother has the idea that you have a girl there in Michigan, and she wants to meet her."

"Can't she just pop over for a visit?" Harvard could hear the desperation in his voice but at this point he didn't really care. He'd been counting on three solid months with Meg, not nine weeks.

Joseph cleared his throat again. "She doesn't want to be nosy."

"Why should she start now?"

Harvard's eyes flew up when he heard a discrete cough coming from the level above him, and he swore quietly under his breath. He hadn't realized he'd made it all the way to the food court, and people were starting to shuffle around in a pre-opening sort of way. They were also glancing curiously at him, and he ducked around the corner.

"Watch your mouth, young man. I didn't raise you to use language like that." Joseph sounded slightly amused.

"Can't you convince her to give me the extra time?" Harvard asked.

"What have you done so far?"

So much for that idea, Harvard thought. He knew he should have been less productive over the past two months. "I finished in the security office yesterday, and I'm starting the interviews – " He stopped when he reached the food court, his eyes going instinctively to where he'd inadvertently woken Meg up a few weeks before. "Today."

"Good." Joseph was all business. The party planner must have just walked into his office. "Then I'll see you in nine weeks." His voice got lower, and Harvard could almost picture him twirling around on his chair to face the wall. "About this girl your mother keeps talking about. Was there something you wanted to share with me, Harvey?"

A picture of Meg, dripping wet and laughing the night before, made Harvard close his eyes before answering. "No," he sighed. "I don't."

His father snorted. "Fine, have it your way. I'm looking forward to meeting her in July. Oh, and Harvard?"

"Yeah?" Harvard rubbed his temples. He knew he shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning.

"Call your mother. She's starting to make noises about grandchildren again. It's getting on my nerves."

Harvard shook his head as he closed his phone. He was standing in front of Meg's shop when he realized he hadn't cringed when his father called him Harvey.

*** *** ***

It had taken Meg nearly all of Saturday to get the shop cleaned up, and by the time she walked in her front door that night she was too tired to think about Harvard.

At least, not much.

If she had, though, she was sure she would have made herself crazy when she realized she hadn't seen him all day.

Not that she wanted to see him, she reminded herself when she caught her eyes straying yet again to the hall in front of the store Sunday afternoon. It was just that she had sort of become used to his presence.

That didn't make him appear, though.

The next day Mamie came in while Whitney was at lunch. "Meg Bailey," she said as she glided past, "I have a list of things you need to do."

Meg tore her eyes away from the front door (how could she be staring at it _again_?) and focused on the large woman standing in front of her. Given what had happened at their last discussion, Mamie looked remarkably satisfied.

"What do you need me to do?"

Without glancing away, Mamie pulled a long piece of paper from her purse and placed it on the counter. "This ought to be pretty clear, even for you." Meg could almost see the syrup dripping from the corners of her mouth when she smiled. "It should only take a few weeks for you to finish. I'll be in periodically to check on your progress."

Meg grabbed the list and scanned it over. It was impossibly long, and included items such as 'paint the ceiling' and 'reorganize the stock room according to color, size and functionality'.

"This is ridiculous," Meg told her, and tried to hand it back to Mamie.

"Yet you still have to do it." Mamie's smile transformed into a smirk.

"And why should I? You can't fire me if I don't."

Mamie rested her arms on the counter and leaned forward until Meg could see the faint outlines of her bleached mustache. "Because if you don't, I'll make sure that Whitney never sees the inside of a college, much less a high school choir room."

Meg's eyes widened until they felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets. "She's your daughter!" she cried out, sliding off the stool and fisting her hands at her sides. "You can't do that to your own child!"

"Just watch me. If I were you, I'd get working on that list. It shouldn't be that hard to decide, Meg Bailey. Isn't your friendship with _my daughter _worth a little extra effort on your part? I'd hate for her dreams to be crushed just because her new best friend wasn't willing to help out a little around the store."

Meg sucked in a shallow breath. What could Mamie really do to Whitney? Could she actually stop her from going to college, or even from getting hired later on? It couldn't be possible. Could it?

"Have a good afternoon, Meg Bailey. I'll see you in a few days." With that, Mamie swept into the mall, leaving a stunned Meg in her wake.

Meg stared blankly at the wall until a customer entered the shop, and even then her attention wasn't completely on her job. She felt mildly relieved when the lady left after only a few minutes, leaving Meg alone to think again.

She knew enough about Whitney's relationship with her mother to realize that Mamie would feel no guilt whatsoever in harming her daughter's future just because she didn't like someone. And really, how bad could it be to work her way through that list? It wasn't like she had a social life or anything.

"Hey, Gorgeous." Harvard chose that moment to stick his head around the door, and Meg nearly groaned. Maybe she didn't have a social life, per se, but that didn't mean she didn't want one. "I was just thinking about you and thought I'd pop in to say hey."

"Hey." Meg tried to smile, but it must not have been very convincing because Harvard frowned at her.

"What's wrong?"

Shaking herself, she stuffed the list in her pocket and rubbed her temples. "Nothing," she said. "It's just been a long day."

"Meg, it's only twelve thirty in the afternoon."

"I know." She slumped down in a chair and leaned her head against the wall. "Exactly how long would I have to spend in a jail cell for killing someone?"

Harvard didn't laugh. Instead, he sat down next to her and studied her face. "A long time. What's Mamie done now? And don't give me that look," he added when Meg turned her face to him. "We both know I'm right."

Meg rolled her eyes at him. She was so tempted to lie and tell him that he was wrong, but she knew she wouldn't be able to pull it off. "Just the usual." She straightened in her seat and looked at him. "What have you been up to?"

He stared at her, hard, before opening his mouth. Before he said a word, though, he shook his head slightly and closed it again. "Just the usual. A lot of eating out." He slumped back against the wall next to her and stared up at the ceiling. "I got the all clear from your dad this morning to move into the downstairs apartment," he said casually. "I can move in whenever I want."

Meg's fingers brushed over the pocket containing Mamie's list. She'd begun to think she'd dreamed that conversation on her couch. "I – "

"I know it took a while," Harvard said, "but your dad wanted to talk to Charley, and he took his own sweet time calling him back." He scowled. "You'd think he didn't want me to move in and make sure you were safe. Whitney, too," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Meg blinked at him. "Dad never talked to me about it." A sudden thought made her grin wickedly up at him. "If you live there, does that make me the evil landlord?"

His mouth fell open, and she burst out laughing. "No," he spluttered, raising his eyes back to the ceiling. "That would be your father."

"But he's not here," she reminded him. "I don't know what sort of arrangement you made with him, but I have one condition."

He swallowed nervously before nodding his head. "Let's hear it."

"Whitney gets to use of the piano whenever she wants. Any time of day."

Grinning, he crossed his arms over his chest. "That sounds reasonable."

"You won't be saying that at three in the morning when she's pounding out some angry Rachmaninoff piece."

He snorted. "I hardly think Whitney's the type that would be okay with disturbing an innocent man's sleep."

"I hardly think you're as innocent as you're trying to make me believe."

Harvard's grin faded, and he reached one finger out to touch her chin. "I guess you'll never know unless you give me a chance."

For a few seconds they stared at each other without moving. Then Meg tore her gaze away and tried to breathe again. "Well, you can't move in yet. That place hasn't been cleaned out since . . . since . . . "

Harvard's eyes had lost some of their intensity when she glanced back at him, and the next thing she knew his arm was around her shoulders and her head was resting in the crook of his arm. "I don't care," he told her quietly. "A little dust doesn't bother me."

"I wasn't referring to the dust." To her disgust, Meg let out a very wobbly sigh. What was wrong with her? Just seconds ago she'd been bargaining with the man, and now she was feeling too emotional for her own good. Maybe she was going through puberty all over again. "It's all the pictures and clothes and Dad didn't clean out his dresser, much less his closet, and – "

"I don't care about those, either."

Meg closed her eyes and relaxed into him. It felt so nice to be held like this, she thought fuzzily. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to face Mamie's wrath after all. "At least give me until Friday," she sighed. "Please."

Harvard sat there for a while without moving, and then his fingers tightened around her. "Okay. Friday afternoon it is. But not a minute later." He cleared his throat and pulled his arm away when an elderly woman entered the shop. "While I'm here, can I get you to order me a pair of shoes?"

Meg's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Another one? I'm beginning to think you're a girl."

Harvard stared down at her, and he swallowed once before speaking. "Oh, believe me, Miss Bailey, I'm all boy."

Meg's mouth was suddenly dry, and she raised her hand to touch her parched throat. "Is that so?" she whispered.

"Oh, yes." He leaned in even further. The sound of a large purse hitting the counter made him jump slightly, and he turned his head to look around. "About those shoes," he continued smoothly. "I was hoping you'd have something I could wear to a very formal occasion. That might include dancing."

"Dancing?" Meg squeaked before clearing her throat. She was really going to have to install a water cooler in the shop soon if Harvard kept wandering in.

"Dancing. Can you take care of it for me?"

"Of course. When do you need them?"

He paused for a second, a strange expression flitting across his face. "Two months or so." He glanced over at the counter again, where the woman was impatiently tapping her fingers on the surface and glaring at him pointedly. "I'll see you in a few days."

Meg smiled to herself as she watched him disappear into the crowd outside her shop. Friday was both an eternity and a second away.

*** *** ***

"I'm not sure about this, Meg."

Whitney stood in front of Meg's car, safely parked in their driveway, and frowned at it. "I mean, I know I asked you to teach me how to drive, but this is your car. What happens if I drive it into your mailbox or something?"

Shrugging, Meg patted the hood of her car and tried to look sympathetic. "It's not like the mailbox will mind all that much," she said calmly. "I don't think you're that bad. I'll pull it into the street for you, and all you'll have to do is drive it to Charley's."

"There are too many people around."

Meg glanced down the road. Not a single car was moving anywhere. "Whitney, please. You can do this." She knew she wasn't being as patient as she should have been, but Harvard was due to show up in a few hours and she still had to clean out the bedroom.

Her head popped up when Whitney started to laugh. "He'll be here before you know it," she teased her friend.

"How did you know I was thinking about Harvard?"

Whitney smirked. "It was just a guess, but thanks for telling me. Why don't you just put the poor guy out of his misery and go out with him?"

Meg had been wondering the same thing ever since Monday afternoon. "I don't know," she said slowly. "At first it was because of Mamie, but now . . . " Her voice trailed off as she thought of that list stuffed in her sock drawer. It wasn't like Mamie could give her any more work than she already had.

Whitney eyed her curiously. "What's she done to change your mind? You've been acting strangely for a couple of days now."

Sighing, Meg leaned against her car and rubbed her eyes. After Monday she'd known that she was going to have to get to the mall early and stay late so she could work on Mamie's assignments, so she'd asked a delighted Charley to ferry Whitney around in his precious Tang. He, of course, had been so excited about the chance to spend some unexpected alone time with his songbird that he hadn't asked any questions.

"Everything's fine," Meg sighed. "Now, about those lessons . . . "

"Lessons? Is this some sort of girl talk or are you playing school?"

Charley bounded up the sidewalk and beamed at them. "Can I play, too?"

Whitney laughed while Meg scowled at him. "I was going to teach Whitney how to drive," she told him. "What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

He grinned down at her and ruffled her hair. "I get days off, too, Meggie."

"Not Fridays!"

Charley just shrugged. "I do now. What's this about teaching Whitney how to drive? Can I help?"

Meg had opened her mouth to tell him to go away when Whitney spoke up. "That's not a bad idea, Meg. I know you have a lot to do today, and it would probably be easier if I was out of your hair."

A watermelon could have fit into the grin on Charley's face. "Yes, Meg. Let me help you out. I'll take care of Whitney – " he smirked at her – "and you take care of whatever else it is that you need to do. It's a win-win situation. I'll go grab your keys."

Meg watched as he bounded up the stairs to her apartment. "How long do you think it'll take before he realizes that I have the keys to my car?"

Whitney lifted a shoulder. "Not too long. Look, about Harvard. I'm sorry to abandon you, but come on. There aren't a whole lot of Harvards around, and this one really, really likes you."

Meg couldn't think of anything to say.

"And I know you like him, too." Whitney's eyes were knowing. "Give him a chance. For all you know, you could be passing up on your own Prince Charming without even knowing it, and I don't want to see you hate yourself for it later on."

The door slammed shut above them, and Meg took a deep breath. "Okay," she said shakily. "If he asks me again, I'll . . . I'll . . . "

"You'll what?" Charley asked, fishing in her pocket to grab her keys.

She took a deep breath. She wasn't sure she was ready yet to admit how much she liked Harvard, but . . . "I'll do it."

Whitney squealed and threw her arms around her friend. "We'll take our time," she whispered in Meg's ear. "Have fun this afternoon."

Meg watched as Charley backed her car out of the driveway before helping Whitney into the front seat. He was leaning on the open door, in the middle of explaining where the windshield wipers controls were, when Meg ran up to him. "Why aren't you taking your car?" she demanded, holding her hand out for her keys.

He just slapped her hand lightly. "Mine has character, Meg. Yours is easier to explain. And I thought you were okay with Whitney driving yours."

"I am, but you just sabotaged – "

"Didn't you have something terribly important to do?"

She sighed and let her hand drop back to her side. When Charley got that look in his eye there was little use in arguing. "Fine. But you better fill it up before you come back."

He grinned cheekily at her. "Yes, Mom."

Meg watched as they drove – very slowly – down the road. She thought she detected Charley's arm thrown casually across the back of Whitney's seat, but she wasn't sure.

She hoped his arm fell asleep. It was very possible.

Meg walked into her old home and took a deep breath, looking around and trying to see it from Harvard's eyes. She'd never been to his home -- in fact, she wasn't even sure she knew where 'home' was -- and the only car she'd ever seen him drive was a rental, so she wasn't sure what exactly he was used to. But from everything she'd heard about him from Brittany it had to be better than this. She wondered why he was so eager to move into her dad's portion of the house.

A little voice that sounded remarkably like Whitney echoed in her brain. _It's because of you_, the voice said smugly. _He likes you, and he wants to be near you._

"Shut up," Meg told herself.

But for the rest of the morning and even through a hurried lunch, she couldn't get that thought out of her head.

So she flung the windows open, cranked up the music, and dusted and cleaned and boxed up her memories like her life depended on it. She didn't even cry when she took her mother's wedding dress out of the closet and hung it in the basement.

She figured that had to be a good sign. Of what, she didn't know, but at this point a good sign was a good sign.

She was in the foyer, wiping down the clock on the wall facing the front door, when the song changed. When she heard the familiar sound of a bass, a drum and snapping fingers she smiled to herself, closed her eyes, and let the music take over.

*** *** ***

Harvard was having a rotten week.

The only good thing that had happened to him since his pseudo date with Meg the week before had been seeing her in her shop on Monday. He'd spoken to her like a rational adult, she hadn't spilled anything on him, accidentally or otherwise, she hadn't tried to maim him, and he'd been so elated by the whole thing that he'd put his arm around her.

And she hadn't run screaming for the police or tried to stomp her heel into his toe.

In fact, she'd leaned into him. She'd even been awake this time. It was almost more than he could bear.

That, however, had been the one and only highlight of an altogether dismal week. This whole interviewing process was proving to be more tedious than he'd bargained for – and it was hard on his stomach. There had to be a way to talk to people without massive amounts of greasy food involved.

But when Friday morning came along he popped out of bed with a little more enthusiasm. He only had two people scheduled this morning, and after lunch . . . well, after lunch things would change.

He could just feel it.

It didn't take him long to pack up his clothes and the few things he'd accumulated in the two months that he'd lived in the hotel, and he paid his bill with a grin on his face.

"Come back to us soon, Mr. Kingston," the girl at the counter said, her eyes lingering appreciatively on him as she handed him his credit card.

He grinned at her like an idiot and shook his head. "I sure hope not."

He barely registered her disappointed look when he walked out of the hotel and into the sunshine, whistling the tune that had been playing in Meg's shop when he'd been in there a few days before. He didn't know what it was, but it sure had a catchy tune.

All the windows were open when Harvard pulled into Meg's driveway. He didn't see her car, but he figured she wouldn't leave the house like that and then run off, so he grabbed his suitcase and a box and trudged up the few steps to the front door. He paused when the strains of a song he'd never heard before wandered out the living room window.

Half a second before he pushed the doorbell he glanced through the thin window next to the door and he was done for. There in front of him stood Meg, her hair swinging around her shoulders and her hips doing things that should be illegal . . . and she was _singing_.

He was extremely grateful Charley was nowhere near him now. If he'd seen him staring through Meg's front window like a common peeping tom, he'd never hear the end of it. And he could never, ever tell him that the sound of Meg crooning out one of the sexiest songs he'd ever heard and snapping her fingers with her back turned to him might just bring him to his knees.

In fact, they were getting weaker by the second. If he didn't wrench his gaze away from her he'd end up in a blubbering puddle on the welcome mat.

When she turned to face him, though, he took one look at her face and stumbled backward.

Things wouldn't have been nearly so bad had he not stepped on his suitcase, but as it was, the wretched thing was behind him, and when he lurched back he lost his balance, crashed down two steps, and landed in the middle of a recently-watered flower bed with a crash.

He laid there for a second, trying to figure out exactly what had happened and hoping desperately that Meg hadn't heard him massacre her tulips.

And that she hadn't seen him spying on her. Maybe he really was a stalker.

Unfortunately, the music had stopped all too abruptly and the only thing he could hear was a bird twittering at him from the roof.

"Don't even think about it," he muttered to the sky.

The door flew open, and he groaned. The gods were obviously not on his side today.

"Harvard!" Meg jumped over his suitcase and knelt next to him. "What happened to you?"

Why did she have to descend the stairs like that while he was lying on his back in the mud? If he didn't know any better he'd swear she did it just to rub it in. "I fell," he muttered, trying to sit up.

Meg pushed him back down, her hands hovering over his head uncertainly. "Are you okay? Did you bump your head?"

He laughed weakly and shook his head, wincing when he felt the wet dirt mash even further into his hair. "I think I'm okay," he sighed. "My pride may be a little wounded, but that's it. I'll have to replace your flowers, though."

She laughed at that. "Well, I guess you'll have to go to Holland to do that."

Harvard sat up and eyed the tulips even as a clump of earth slid down his hair and landed on his shoulder. "You guys went all out."

Meg scrambled to her feet and held out her hand to help him up. "Holland, Michigan," she clarified. "It's on the Lake Michigan side. They have a tulip festival every year. You should go while you're here."

Harvard wasn't doing any sightseeing without her, but given his current state he was pretty sure she wouldn't think very favorably about going anywhere in public with him. He sighed when he looked at his jeans. "I need a shower," he mumbled, trying to wipe his hands on his pants. It didn't do a whole lot of good.

Meg ran up the stairs and grabbed his suitcase, wrestling it into the foyer before he could scramble to his feet and snatch it from her. "Follow me," she told him over her shoulder. He swore she was laughing at him but was too polite to be obvious about it. "I'll give you the grand tour when you're done, but for now – " she threw a door open at the end of the hall – "your bathroom's through there."

Once he was in the shower Harvard started to feel marginally better. He still couldn't fathom how he reverted to a twelve-year-old almost instantly every time he was within thirty feet of Meg, but she hadn't laughed at him outright and she hadn't told him to take his pitiful suitcase back to the hotel.

It could have been a lot worse, all things considered.

He threw on the first clothes he pulled from his bag and was towel drying his hair when the phone rang. "Kingston here," he barked without glancing at the screen.

"Well, hello, darling. Why are you in such a foul mood this afternoon?"

Groaning, Harvard let the towel fall onto the floor and leaned heavily against the wall. "Hello, Mother."

"Have you talked to your father recently?"

"Just yesterday. Why?"

"Well, either he's not passing along my messages or you're refusing to call your own mother out of sheer rudeness."

Harvard groaned again. He knew he shouldn't have answered the phone.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I know I should have – "

"How's Meg doing?" Jillian's voice was too bright, like she knew she was asking a personal question but still expected an answer.

This called for a rapid change of subject. "Do you know any old songs that have virtually no accompaniment?"

"I know what you're doing, Harvard."

"No, really. I heard this song and I can't figure out what it is. A woman sings it and snaps her fingers."

"That's not very helpful."

Harvard huffed out a breath. "There's a line in it that caught my attention," he told her slowly. "What a lovely way to burn."

He let his mother think about this for a bit. He could tell she was thinking because he could hear her fingernails drumming on the phone. He hated it when she did that, but had learned to keep his mouth shut about it. "I'll see what I can find for you," she said finally. "Now, how's Meg doing?"

He should have known better than to think she'd forget her earlier question. Harvard's eyes drifted to the bedroom door and he grinned to himself. "Just fine, actually."

"Really? Has she agreed to go out with you?"

Harvard briefly considered telling her about their dinner at The Whitney, but decided it'd be way too complicated – and embarrassing. "Not exactly," he hedged. "But I'm in the process of moving in with her."

There was a shocked silence, during which time Harvard realized what he'd just said. He was about to explain when Jillian started talking. "Please tell me she's not easy," she said in a voice dripping with disapproval. "I was starting to like this girl, and I don't think I'm ready to have my little bubble burst quite yet. I don't think I could live with myself if my son finally let one of those groupies lasso him."

"Meg isn't a groupie," Harvard snapped. "I'm living in her downstairs apartment. Alone." More's the pity, he thought, but kept that to himself.

"Thank goodness. You're not old enough for me to lose all respect for you yet." She paused for a second. "You're taking her to the ball, aren't you?"

"If she'll go with me."

Jillian chuckled quietly. "Have you ever met a girl that could resist you for that long, son?"

Scrunching up his face, Harvard ran a hand through his damp hair. "Not until Meg. She seems to bring out sides in me I didn't know existed." His eyes drifted to the bathtub, where a thin layer of flower bed rested innocently near the drain.

"Hmm. Is that good?"

Harvard sighed and rubbed his scalp. "I don't know, Mom. I just don't know."

"Well, get cracking! It's not like you have a lot of time left!"

If one more person reminded him of his supposed departure date he'd eat his rental car and regurgitate it on their shoes. "It's hardly my fault that Dad isn't cooperating," he snapped. "I was planning on twelve weeks, not nine."

"You and I both know why the schedule got changed. There isn't a force on earth that could change your father's mind at this point."

Blasted inter-league play. Harvard sometimes wished his father had grown up anywhere but Chicago. "Wait a second," he said, his eyes narrowing. "Dad told me ut was your idea to change the schedule."

Jillian laughed lightly. "Really, darling. Since when do you believe your father about things like this? You know how excited he was when the schedule came out."

Oh, Harvard knew, all right. It'd been all he'd heard for months. "Maybe I'll just stay here after this is all wrapped up," he mumbled without thinking about it.

"Maybe you should," she said. "Honestly, Harvard, for a boy with an Ivy League education you certainly can be dense sometimes."

Harvard stood there in Arthur's bathroom and stared at his reflection. "I could just stay," he repeated slowly. "Dad would kill me, but . . . "

Jillian sighed. "No, he wouldn't. He was young and in love once, too."

"I'm not – " He caught the hopeful look on his own face in the mirror and couldn't finish the sentence.

"Good job, son. I'm glad to see my money wasn't wasted after all. Tell Meg I said hello, and that I'll be looking for her at the carnival in two weeks. Oh, the invitations should arrive at your office in the mall tomorrow. Send me your new address when you have a chance." With that Jillian hung up, leaving Harvard to shut the phone slowly and run his hand through his hair again. He felt strange, like he'd just had an epiphany and wasn't sure what to do about it.

He wandered out into the hallway of his new home a few minutes later , perking up considerably when he sniffed something that smelled suspiciously like homemade soup, and his footsteps quickened until he practically ran into the kitchen. He skidded to a halt in the doorway.

Meg looked over her shoulder at him. She had a long spoon in her hand, and her cheeks were flushed. "Hey," she said softly. "Do you feel better?"

Harvard blinked and took a step back. "Are you cooking for me?"

She blushed and turned back to stir the pot. "You had a pretty rotten afternoon," she mumbled. "My mom always made this for me when I was upset about something, and it always made me feel better, and Charley called to let me know he and Whitney were going out to eat, so . . . "

Harvard's brain finally convinced his feet to move forward, and they didn't stop until he was standing so close to her that his arm hairs stood on end. "Thank you," he told her quietly.

Meg glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Then she blushed again.

*** *** ***

They took a quick tour of the house while the soup simmered, and to Harvard's surprise his favorite part was in the basement. "Where do those stairs go?" he asked, leaning against the washing machine.

"Up to my apartment. Dad put them in so I wouldn't have to run around outside in the winter to do my laundry." She cocked her head in his direction. "Will it be a problem? Technically I have access to your part of the house."

Grinning at her, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Aren't you worried that I'm going to sneak up there in the middle of the night and smother you with your pillow?"

She made a face at him and started climbing his stairs. "I have a deadbolt on my side," she said. "Besides, you wouldn't kill me. I'm feeding you dinner."

She had a point there, Harvard thought. "You should let me return the favor next week," he blurted out.

He held his breath as he waited for her reaction, and when she finally smiled down at him his eyes nearly crossed with relief. "I'd like that. Can I trust you not to burn down the house?"

Grinning, he put his hand on the small of her back as they walked into the kitchen. "You have nothing to worry about."

The soup was delicious, and the company even more so. Harvard couldn't take his eyes off her, and when she caught him staring he just grinned at her. "Tell me about your shop," he said, scraping his spoon against the bottom of his bowl and looking hopefully at the pot.

Meg laughed and nodded at him. "Help yourself. I don't know what to tell you about The Glass Slipper; you've been in there enough times to have a feel for what it is."

Harvard ladled another bowl and carried it carefully back to the table. "Not really," he said around a mouthful of carrot. "All I really know is that you have an uncanny knack for sizing my feet, and for finding the best pairs of shoes I've ever had the pleasure of wearing."

Meg's cheeks got a little pink, but she waved him off. "My grandmother opened it not long after she was married," she told him, watching in amusement as he slurped. "She passed it down to my mother, and then . . . " She became quiet, and Harvard cursed himself. "And now," she went on, and Harvard wisely decided to ignore the slight shake in her voice, "I get to work there every day and carry on the tradition."

"Have you ever wanted to do anything else?"

"I wanted to be a lion tamer when I was five. Does that count?"

Laughing, Harvard pushed his bowl away and sat back in his chair contentedly. "Why didn't you try? I'm sure you would have been good at it."

Snorting, Meg carried their dishes to the sink only to have them taken out of her hands. "You cooked. I clean," Harvard told her, opening the dishwasher.

She smiled at him and let him lead her to the family room when he was done. "I would have been great at it if I could have seen past all the teeth. I couldn't, so I fell back on my other option."

"Do you like working at the mall?"

Meg gave him a strange look. "Why do I have the feeling that I'm in the middle of a job interview?"

Harvard shrugged innocently. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

The strange look didn't leave her face, but she answered his question anyway. "I love the mall. At least, I used to before Mamie showed up. It's big and it's classy and it's eclectic. You can find almost anything you want inside, and at Christmas time even the grouchiest people can find it in themselves to smile at least once."

"I think the people who come into your shop smile no matter what time of year it is," Harvard said drily. "When they leave, they turn back into scrooges."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Aren't you a little young to be so cynical?"

This was the second time in as many hours that someone had called him young. If he wasn't careful he was going to get a complex. "I'm twenty-seven," he loftily informer her. "I'm plenty old enough to be as cynical as I please."

She studied him for a moment and then sighed. "That's sad."

Harvard shifted on the couch until he was facing her. "Why's that?"

"Because if you always doubt everyone's intentions, they'll gladly live up to your expectations."

Harvard thought about her words for a long time after she'd told him good night and had disappeared into the basement.

It was terribly ironic that the one person who fit all his interviewing criterion was also the person he'd fallen in love with without trying to.

He slowly cleaned up the kitchen and ambled through his new home, finally stopping in the basement where he stared at the stairs leading two flights above him. He sighed when his phone buzzed with an incoming text, but when he read it he couldn't keep the smile from spreading across his face.

It was from his mother, and all it said was, _'Fever'_ _by Peggy Lee._

Meg had a new ring tone.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Even with a fuzzy, barely-awake brain Meg could smell cinnamon.

Her eyes still closed, she sniffed the air appreciatively and considered rolling out of bed.

Then someone chuckled softly, and the scent got tantalizingly closer, only to retreat.

"What are you doing in my room this early?" Meg mumbled, kicking her legs under the covers in a vain attempt to make contact.

"Breakfast. It doesn't taste as good when I eat it in my apartment."

Meg cracked an eye open and squinted at Charley. "Is that right? Funny. You didn't have this problem until Whitney moved in."

Charley just grinned at her and took another bite of his cinnamon roll. Meg had never seen someone enjoy a breakfast pastry that much.

"Shouldn't you be in the kitchen waiting for your love bunny to wake up instead of sitting on my bed and getting crumbs all over the sheets?"

He shrugged. "I didn't want to wake her up too early." He stuffed the rest of his roll in his mouth, licked his fingers clean, and stretched his legs out until his feet were propped beside Meg's head. "That was good," he sighed. "You should really get more of those."

"I should never have given you a key," Meg said drily, struggling to sit up. "You waltz in like you own the place and empty my refrigerator."

"You should just let me set up camp on the deck. It'd make things a lot easier."

"Easier for you, maybe."

Charley looked like he wanted to press the point, but changed his mind. "What happened to all the flowers in the front yard? It looks like someone face planted in them."

Meg stared up at the ceiling and tried not to laugh. "I don't know, exactly," she told him. "They were like that when I went outside yesterday afternoon." She wasn't sure why she didn't just tell him that Harvard had, in fact, stuck his head and half his upper body in the flower bed, but she didn't. Perhaps it was because this information would give Charley more ammunition for future torment.

It was probably good that neither one of them had ever been blessed with a younger brother.

Charley narrowed his eyes at her. "You're not telling me something."

Lifting a shoulder, Meg started to unwind herself from her covers. As soon as she was free and out of bed Charley snagged her pillow with one last suspicious glance in her direction. He wadded it up, flipped over on his stomach, and stuck it under his chin. "You'd better hop in the shower," he told her, and rolled his eyes at her when she smiled innocently in his direction. "And don't forget to use that conditioner I made you buy. You're starting to get split ends."

Meg rolled her eyes, but once she was standing under the hot water she inspected her hair and sighed. She hated it when he was right.

When she emerged Charley sat up and took her brush off the dresser. He waited until she'd situated herself cross-legged on the bed in front of him before slowly running it through her wet hair. Meg sighed and let her eyes drift shut. Charley was the best hair-comber in the world – all gentle strokes with an occasional scratch at the scalp. It was really too bad that he only did it when he had something heavy on his mind.

"You know I love you, don't you, Meggie?"

Meg turned her head so quickly the brush skidded across her cheek. "What?"

Charley grimaced at her and pushed her head back into its original position. "You know that, right?"

She stared at his reflection in the mirror hanging over her dresser. "What did you do to my car?"

A strange noise, almost a mix between a laugh and a strangled cough, came from behind her. "I didn't do anything to your precious car," he said, snapping the water out of the brush and onto her robe. "Just answer the question."

It seemed a little ironic that Charley used the word 'precious' when referring to her car, Meg thought, but the light mood from before her shower had disappeared and he no longer seemed to be interested in snappy retorts. "I love you just as much as you love me," she said, hoping she sounded as sincere as she felt. "I've never doubted that."

Charley snorted. "I can think of one or two times when you weren't too sure about that. Remember Bryan?"

"I still think I should have been the one to break up with him," Meg said. "Just because he wanted to put a turret on top of his apartment building so he could attack poor, unsuspecting people with a potato gun hardly gives you the right to – "

"We've been over this before," Charley interrupted mildly. "And for the record, he wasn't after poor, unsuspecting people. He was after any guy that happened to glance your way."

They didn't say anything for a long time. Charley moved the brush steadily through her hair, and Meg was on the verge of dozing off when his quiet voice broke through the silence. "I think I'm falling in love with Whitney."

Meg smiled at his reflection. "I know you are."

Charley dropped the brush. "What – I didn't – how do you know?"

She leaned back and kissed his cheek affectionately. "I'd have to be dead not to figure it out," she told him, and laughed at his shocked expression. "The Whitney? Really, Charley. You can't tell me that was Harvard's idea."

"It could've been," he protested.

Ignoring him, Meg slid off the bed and opened her closet. "And I saw the way you looked at her outside the restaurant. Either you were in love or you were developing an ulcer."

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Charley flopped back on the bed in an attitude of defeat. "Is there anything else I should know about myself?" he asked, plaintive.

Meg considered this as she pulled a skirt off its hanger. "Nothing that I'm willing to tell you." She grinned at him over her shoulder and ducked back into the bathroom. "Why were you so worried before, anyway?" she called as she got dressed.

"I wasn't worried about anything."

What was it about men that made them unable to admit to awkward emotions? "Then why did you want to make sure I knew you loved me? Are you sure you didn't do anything to my car yesterday?"

Charley pushed the door open just as Meg was smoothing her sweater over her stomach. "Will you stop obsessing over your car? It's fine. Not a scratch on it. I just wanted to make sure you knew that just because I have feelings for another woman, that doesn't mean that you've been replaced."

"Oh, sweetie." She hooked an arm around his neck and squeezed tight. "It's okay if Whitney pushed me over a little bit in your heart. Your wife is supposed to be your best friend, after all."

Charley stiffened and pushed away from her. "Who said anything about a wife?"

Smirking at him, she took her makeup bag out of the drawer and pretended not to notice his flabbergasted appearance. "You never do anything by halves, Mr. Grimm," she said, and then, in her best impersonation of his mother, continued, "and men have biological clocks too, you know."

He banged the back of his head against the wall and laughed. "I think you should stop talking to my mom."

Meg just smiled at his reflection serenely. It hadn't escaped her notice that he hadn't said her assumption was dead wrong. "You're not allowed to move in after you two get hitched," she warned. "I can only stand so much lovey-doveyness in my home."

Sighing, Charley started to twist her hair into an intricate know at the nape of her neck. "Yes, ma'am." He concentrated for a minute before saying, in a too-casual voice, "I met Whitney's dad yesterday."

That brought Meg's head snapping up. "Her dad?" she asked. "Whitney never mentions him. I kind of figured he'd passed away or something."

Charley's tugging became more languid. "No, he's around. He and Squeaky got divorced when Whitney was little, and there was a huge custody battle. Whitney says Mamie only wanted the girls so she could collect money from their father. She's probably right," he added, pulling angrily on a strand of her hair and making Meg wince. "Sometimes I wish she wasn't a woman so I could deck her."

"I guess it's good that your mother instilled proper non-woman-beating values in you."

Charley huffed out his breath and started sticking bobby pins into his creation. "She might make an exception for this particular woman. Anyway, Whitney used to spend summers with her dad until Mamie decided he was putting ideas into her head."

Mamie was the queen of unoriginal thought, so this didn't surprise Meg a whole lot. It did, however, explain a few things about the way Whitney acted when she made a suggestion. She'd have to remember to be more encouraging, especially when they were in the shop. "What did you think of him?"

Charley sat on the counter next to her, his hands behind his head. "Surprisingly normal, considering who he married. I didn't get much of a chance to talk to him, unfortunately. He had to run off to a class."

"Class? What's he studying?"

Charley shot her a surprised look. "He's not studying anything. He's a philosophy professor at Oakland University."

*** *** ***

All the way to the store that morning, Meg plotted ways to tell Mamie she could take her blasted list and shove it . . . well, somewhere very unpleasant. She couldn't seem to get her mind around the fact that Mamie had blackmailed her by inferring that she could keep Whitney out of college – when Whitney's father was a college professor. And, according to Charley, tenured.

Maybe Mamie didn't really believe Meg was living with her daughter.

After all that thinking and planning (and a healthy amount of anticipation that was most likely not very healthy after all) Mamie didn't even have the common courtesy to show up for her tongue lashing.

In fact, she didn't come into the shop until nearly closing time, and when she finally sauntered through the back door Harvard was there at the front, clutching a formal-looking envelope and grinning at her like he held the keys to Krispy Kreme's production plant in his hand.

Meg stood in the middle of the shop and waited as they converged on her from opposite directions. To her surprise, Harvard spoke first. "Good evening, Miss Bailey," he said, and winked a second. Seconds later an eager-looking Mamie sidled up and snatched the envelope from him. "Ms. Steppe. It's a delight, as always."

Mamie batted her eyes at Harvard and fanned her face with her free hand. "Oo, Harvard, you're so sweet to say such lovely things to an old lady like me."

Harvard's eyes rolled ever so slightly upward and he plastered a fake smile on his face. "I'd hardly call you old, Ms. Steppe."

Eyelashes fluttering even faster, Mamie stuck one extra-long fingernail into the envelope and slit it open. "Is this an invitation?" she cooed before glancing down at the paper she pulled out.

Harvard nodded and stole a quick glance at Meg, who was trying not to gag. The corners of his mouth quirked up so slightly that she was sure she'd imagined it – until she caught the glint of humor in his eye.

"Oh, my," Mamie gasped. "Brittany will be so pleased to get this. She's been dying for a reason to wear that new dress she bought when we heard you were coming to town."

"I hope all of your employees will be able to attend. Please send your RSVP to – "

"Oh, I can tell you right now." Mamie placed her hand on Harvard's arm and squeezed. "Brittany and I will definitely be there, but I'm afraid Meg Bailey and Whitney will have to work." She giggled at him and leaned closer. "Working girls have to earn their privileges, you know."

Harvard untangled himself from Mamie's grasp with the grace of a man who had found himself in that particular situation so often that disengaging had become second nature. "I could be wrong, but I believe my father is inviting all employees not needed in the stores," he told her, placing his hands behind his back and out of sight. "The festival is a week from Friday. Surely Miss Bailey and Miss Steppe still have that day off work."

Mamie's smile froze on her face, making her look like a giant, overblown Cabbage Patch doll. "Naturally. Please put down four attendees from The Glass Slipper." She glared at Meg, who was sure she'd hear about this once Harvard was no longer in earshot. "Please excuse me." With that, she turned and flounced out into the mall.

Meg and Harvard watched as the crowd parted to let her through. "That went better than I was expecting," he said once she'd turned the corner.

"Really?"

He sank into a chair and rubbed his temples. "I was sure she'd fight harder about letting you and Whitney come."

The last customers were scurrying down the hallway, and Meg pulled down the security gate and locked the door. "What exactly are we attending again? I'm afraid I didn't get to see the invite before Mamie started drooling over her future son-in-law."

Harvard grimaced. "You could be struck dead for saying things like that. For your information, we're throwing a festival a week from Friday, in the park behind the mall. It should be lots of fun," he added when he saw Meg's skeptical look. "Jugglers, acrobats, carnival games, elephant ears, fortune tellers . . ."

"Kissing booths?" she asked, and grinned when he pulled a face in disgust.

"No kissing booths." He got to his feet and walked toward her. "Any kissing I do will be free and completely voluntary. Would you like a sample?"

Meg's ears started ringing, and when he touched his index finger to her bottom lip she could feel her head tilting back. "I never kiss on a first date," she stuttered.

"Then I guess it's good that we've had several."

He leaned in closer still and whispered, "So can I put you down as a 'yes' for the festival?"

At this point Meg would have agreed to move to Antarctica if he'd asked her. "Yes," she whispered back.

Harvard's eyes dropped to her lips. "Good," he breathed. His hand fell to her shoulder, inching her closer still, and –

"Meg? Did you sign for these boxes by the stairs?"

Meg jumped away from Harvard, and he blinked a few times before shaking his head in confusion.

"Is everything okay?"

Whitney stood uncertainly in the doorframe. She glanced between them before she blushed furiously. "Oh. _Oh_. I'm so sorry. I'll be in the back if you need me," she stammered before stumbling backward and disappearing into the back room.

It took a second for Meg's mouth to catch up to her brain, and even then her words were pitched several keys higher than normal. "I need to – I'd better – I really should – "

Harvard ran his hand through his hair and cleared his throat. "Yeah, me too. Are we still on for this Friday?"

At her dazed nod, he smiled before sticking a finger into his collar and pulling it away from his neck. She wondered, through the haze that had taken over her grey matter, if he needed a new set of shirts. Either that or he was developing a nervous tick. She wasn't sure exactly what kind of doctor took care of things like that, but she added it to her growing list of medical professionals he needed to see.

"Good," he said, relief evident in his tone. "I'll see you then." He turned around and was a foot from the door when he remembered that she'd locked it. "I'll just let myself out the back." He grinned at her lopsidedly and almost sprinted through the shelves of shoes and out the door.

Meg, who hadn't moved since he'd stalked toward her a few minutes earlier, let her back fall against the counter. If almost kissing Harvard Kingston could be so mind-blowing, she was fairly sure she'd spontaneously combust if he actually did it.

Not that that was necessarily a bad thing.

*** *** ***

Harvard's phone rang just as he got his keys in the ignition, and he groaned when he saw the name flash on the display. "Hello, Mother."

"Darling!" she chirped. "How was your day?"

A grin exploded on his face so fast he was sure his jaws would unhinge. "Great. Absolutely fantastic."

Jillian didn't miss a beat. "So Meg agreed to go to the festival with you." It wasn't a question, the way mothers always ask questions that they already know the answers to.

"She might have." Harvard's grin got impossibly wider when his mother sighed into the phone. "All right, she did. Just a few minutes ago. And I'm making her dinner on Friday."

There was a long pause. "Sweetheart, you can't cook."

Harvard was mildly offended. "Yes, I can. How do you think I survived through college?"

"Well, I distinctly remember at least one case of salmonella poisoning and a frantic call about a stove on fire. You were making ramen noodles, I believe."

That made Harvard's excitement dim, but only slightly. "That was a long time ago," he said loftily, pulling out into traffic. "I've had a lot of time to perfect my culinary skills since then."

Jillian obviously thought his line of reasoning left a lot to be desired. "I'd better come out there and take care of things for you," she decided, tapping her fingers against the receiver. "Otherwise Meg may kick you out of her house, assuming you haven't killed her, and I'll never be able to buy all those cute little outfits all my friends insist on shoving in my face every time one of their offspring brings a baby home from the hospital."

Harvard groaned inwardly. No wonder Jillian was getting on his father's nerves. She'd only been on the phone for forty-five seconds and already he was beginning to wish cell phones had never been invented. "Mother, please. I can take care of it. By myself," he stressed when Jillian's tapping got faster.

"You seem awfully sure of yourself. She must have succumbed to the Kingston charm. Did you kiss her?"

Harvard's mind flew back to the scene in Meg's shop just thirty minutes earlier and his fingers relaxed around the steering wheel. "Not quite," he sighed. "One of her co-workers interrupted us."

"Harvard Dartmouth Kingston!" Her voice was scandalized. "Since when do you go around kissing girls in public? Haven't I taught you anything about proper romancing?"

Sometimes his mother could be terribly old-fashioned. It was probably good that she didn't know how many girls had 'succumbed to the Kingston charm' -- in public, no less. "Mom, I don't think she minded." He let his mind replay the moment his hand drifted to her shoulder and jumped when the person behind him honked angrily. He snapped back to attention and concentrated on getting home.

"It doesn't matter if she minded or not. I hardly think a shop is the right place to kiss the Girl of Your Dreams for the first time. Honestly, Harvard. And you call yourself a romantic."

He didn't, actually, and wondered how in the world she'd made it sound like half the words in her speech were capitalized. "I'll try to do better next time," he said a little unsurely. Maybe his mom had a point. Meg did deserve romance and flowers and all that other stuff girls got all excited about. All of a sudden cooking dinner on Friday appeared more daunting than he was willing to admit – at least to his mother.

"Make sure you do. Oh, and I have bad news."

"Oh?" he said absently, parking his car in front of the house so Meg could have the driveway. "What's that?"

Jillian sighed heavily. "I won't be able to make it to the festival after all. Your father suddenly remembered a charity function he promised we'd attend six months ago."

Harvard made a mental note to send Joseph a case of his favorite golf balls. "That's too bad," he said as genuinely as he could. "It won't be the same without you."

"Really? I suppose I could tell Joseph to go by himself just this once if you need me – "

Harvard interrupted her before she could get too carried away. "I think we'll survive, Mother," he told her. "Besides, I'll see you in July. Unless you're coming to the next event."

"No," she said in distaste. "That's all your father's doing. I know he was planning on staying home, but I have a feeling that he'll change his mind."

She was probably right. "Have fun at your charity gig," he said. "I'm glad it's you and not me."

"Some things never change," she said affectionately. "I'm hoping Meg can make you see that getting all dressed up for a party isn't as bad as you think."

"She's amazing, but no one's that good."

Jillian just laughed. "You never know," she said. "You also told me a long time ago that you'd never listen to the oldies."

Harvard noticed that she didn't mention Peggy Lee by name, and was grateful for minor miracles. It was also to her credit that only a trace of motherly perception (along with a smidge of irony) escaped over the phone.

*** *** ***

"You're late."

Mamie's voice drifted into the back room the next morning as Meg shrugged out of her jacket, and she almost turned around and went home. It never boded well when Mamie beat her into the shop.

"Did you hear me, Meg Bailey?"

Sighing, Meg gave a last, longing look at her escape route and shuffled her way into the front of the shop. To her surprise, Brittany was sitting in front of the cash register, flicking through a fashion magazine while her mother paced around, glaring at shoes like they were the cause of all her problems.

"It's about time. Have your legs been fused together, girl? You move as fast as – "

"A penguin on downers," Brittany said absently. Meg stifled a snort of laughter. Perhaps there was a shred of Mr. Steppe in Brittany's genetic makeup after all.

Mamie ignored her daughter. "I would have thought you'd be in here at the crack of dawn, considering all the extra tasks you still have to complete."

Meg smiled broadly and took the list Mamie had given to her out of her skirt pocket. "Do you mean this list? I was about halfway through it when I found out that Whitney's father was a college professor." A look of dawning realization and horror spread across Mamie's face. "I was bound to find out sooner or later," she continued, knowing she would probably regret enjoying Mamie's discomfort so much but not really caring.

Mamie glared at her with narrowed eyes. "Brittany," she snapped. "Get me a large coffee. Black."

Brittany opened her mouth to argue but decided against it after one look at her mother's expression. She danced past Meg on her way out, sing-songing, "Someone's in trouble" under her breath and grinning wickedly.

The two women stared at each other. A detached portion of Meg's mind wondered when they were supposed to draw their weapons, and when they did, if Mamie was planning on fighting civilly.

"Do you know what makes me unhappy, Meg Bailey?" Mamie's voice was cold when she finally spoke. It made Meg shiver.

"Insubordination?"

That may not have been the wisest thing to say. "Ingratitude," Mamie barked, her nostrils flaring. "I've tried to be nice to you, Meg Bailey. I've done everything I could to make sure you were happy and content here at the store." Mamie pretended not to notice Meg's snort of disbelief. "But now I'm afraid you leave me no choice." She stalked toward the gate and rapped on it, tapping her foot impatiently while Meg pulled it open. Then she grabbed Meg's elbow and marched her through the empty mall, stopping in front of a discount shoe store that looked like the manager had been on vacation since the middle of the Cold War.

The gate was already up and Mamie took a step toward it. Before she could get her foot over the threshold a small woman with a greasy bun materialized in front of her. "Mamie Steppe," she greeted sourly. "It's been a long time."

Mamie smiled a smile that made the hairs on the back of Meg's arms stand on end. "Meg Bailey, this is Susan Platt. I'm about to acquire her shop."

Meg took an involuntary step backward. "Another shop?"

The look on Susan Platt's face answered her question. "Yes, another shop," the woman said in disgust. "It seems like no one is safe from the Steppes these days. The papers won't be ready to sign until noon," she told Mamie, crossing her arms in front of her chest and scowling. "So unless you're here to tell me you've changed your mind, get off my property."

A sound almost like a purr emanated from Mamie. "I don't change my mind about these things." She was way too smug for her own good, Meg noted, and took another step back. "I'm here to teach a little lesson. You see, Meg Bailey, as much as you hate working for me, I do have ways to end your troubles. And as much as it'd pain me to do so, I'd be willing to help you find the happiness you deserve."

Susan cleared her throat. "I have work to do," she said pointedly. "Take your employment problems somewhere else."

"Oh, but Ms. Platt, you're the key to my plan." Mamie put a viselike grip on Meg's shoulder. "If she can't perform her tasks to my satisfaction, I'll have to assume that I am a poor employer. And the only thing to do, I'm afraid, would be to sell her precious shop. You wouldn't happen to know anyone interested in purchasing a high-end shoe store, would you, Ms. Platt?"

Meg felt the blood drain from her face. Susan's, however, lit up like she'd just won eternal youth. "You can't do that," Meg mouthed, unable to make any sound.

Mamie's grip on her shoulder tightened. "Oh, but I can, my dear. And while I may not be able to fire you, Ms. Platt would have no reason to let you stay." Her eyes bored into Meg's. "Do I make myself clear?"

Meg swallowed past the lump in her throat. "Perfectly," she croaked out.

Mamie's teeth glittered when she smiled. "And don't forget that you have an hour for lunch every day, as well as Fridays off. I'd hate for anyone to think that I was a bad boss and made you work straight through seven days of work. Not that anyone cares, but we must keep up appearances."

"Right," Meg whispered. Her mind was disturbingly blank.

Mamie gave her shoulder one last squeeze before she let go and turned to Susan. "Ms. Platt, what exactly would you offer me . . . "

Meg turned around and fled through the mall, her hands over her mouth to keep her scream inside. If she'd thought Mamie was horrid before, she now knew she'd had no idea exactly how evil she could be. Mamie would never sell The Glass Slipper, she told herself over and over. It was her first shop – and it made her more money than all her other stores combined. It'd be pure stupidity to dump it just because of a grudge.

Wouldn't it?

*** *** ***

The next few days were a blur of interviews and meetings. Harvard rarely had time to stop by The Glass Slipper, and on the few occasions that he pulled himself away from his duties to peek into his favorite shoe store Meg was always either helping a steady stream of customers or sequestered away in the back room and couldn't come out.

He did, however, see her at lunch when they were both in the food court. He'd found that most shop owners – at least the females -- preferred to talk to him over food. When Kyle from security had mentioned that every time Harvard purchased a woman a meal they felt justified in calling it a date, he'd groaned and stared at his list of names, doing some internal math. And then he groaned again. He didn't have much time, thanks to his parents, so lunch appointments were his best bet. "I'm going to have half the mall population thinking I'm dating them," he muttered, and scowled when Kyle clapped him on the back.

Meg was sitting next to the window when he entered the food court on Monday, and he positioned himself so he could see her out of the corner of his eye. At least he'd have her laughing eyes to look at while he listened to inane chatter from his dining companion. Sure enough, when his first interview of the day appeared, all heaving, scantily clad bosom and heavily painted lips, he caught Meg smirking at him. She raised her eyebrows at the woman's back and laughed into her sandwich. It took all his concentration not to blow his straw wrapper at her head, but he smiled and chatted and let the poor woman scrawl her phone number on a napkin – with her lipstick, naturally -- which he threw in the trash after she'd giggled her way into the main portion of the mall, just in time for his next appointment to nearly hyperventilate when she caught him winking at Meg. He didn't have the heart to tell her that he wasn't winking at her.

This scene repeated itself over and over for the next few days. Harvard was beginning to wonder why it seemed like all the shops in his mall were owned by women. He could have sworn that his list was predominately male. Surely they weren't _all_ sending him their daughters . . .

By the time Thursday arrived Harvard was sick and tired. Sick, because after four days of mall fare he was relatively sure the grease he was ingesting was eating a hole in his intestinal wall, and tired because . . . well, that seemed pretty obvious to him. If one more girl 'dropped' her napkin on the floor so she'd have to bend over to retrieve it he might pass an ordinance saying that everyone who worked in the Brothers Mall had to be covered from head to toe in dense fabric. Maybe even burlap.

What he couldn't figure out, though, was why Meg was looking increasingly exhausted.

She also seemed more and more disgruntled. As his second interview of the day appeared in front of him Thursday afternoon and he stood up to greet her, Meg's eyes slid away from him and she stared out the window. He was beginning to think there was a zebra crossing the street outside when he spotted her fingers shredding her brown paper bag into pieces so small they looked like confetti. And when the current girl – Tammy? Terry? he had to check his notes to be sure – giggled and dropped her spoon twice Meg left without sparing a glance in his direction, her lunch left untouched on the table.

He got home Thursday night after an interview at a bar with a man who had all the qualifications he was looking for, but when Harvard asked him what he liked about the mall the guy sighed and looked away, and Harvard's shoulders dropped as he watched him walk to his car a few minutes later.

Meg still wasn't home when he parked in front of the house, and he frowned and glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven. He put the key back in the ignition to go looking for her when he heard a knock on his window.

"Is Meg with you?" Charley demanded, scowling when Harvard shook his head and got out of the car. "I texted her a while ago asking when she was going to leave the shop, and she didn't really answer. I think something's going on."

Harvard put his hands behind his head and stretched out his shoulders as they walked up the front steps. "She's usually home by now."

"I know that, Stalker." Charley rolled his eyes.

"The woman lives above me. I can hear her walking around up there. And stop calling me a stalker. I'm just . . . observant. With good hearing."

Charley snorted at this. "A rose by any other name, man."

Harvard chose to pretend he'd momentarily become deaf, and they sat on the top step staring at the street with nothing too see. It seemed like a small eternity before Charley said, "She could be avoiding you, you know. That's how Meg deals with unpleasant situations. She pretends they don't exist."

Harvard felt a little offended. He'd never been called an 'unpleasant situation' and he wasn't too keen to have it start now. "I haven't done anything to her," he retorted stiffly before squirming on the stone steps. He'd thought Meg was reciprocating his . . . advances in her shop the other day, but maybe he'd read her wrong. That idea bothered him more than he thought it would.

"So you didn't almost kiss her in front of a mall full of people?"

"It was closed," Harvard snapped, "and – hey, wait a second. How do you know about that?"

Charley leaned back on his elbows. "I saw you, Mr. Tall, Dark and Interrupted. For a man who's supposed to possess all these womanizing ways, you sure aren't slick."

Harvard cursed under his breath. He really should have thought before getting so close to her, but there she'd stood, all laughing mouth and dancing eyes, and it was like his brain had been tuned to the Meg frequency and he couldn't stop himself. He hadn't wanted to stop himself.

A nudge in his ribs made him twitch, and Charley laughed quietly. "Don't worry," he said, slapping the other man on the shoulder. "She didn't mind."

They lapsed into silence again. Harvard couldn't keep his eyes from straying down the street every six seconds. "Meg's been looking really tired lately," he muttered. "You don't suppose . . . "

Charley sat up and rested his elbows on his knees. "No," he said slowly, "she's just been spending a ton of time in the store. I don't know why. They haven't been any busier than usual."

"Then why all the long hours?"

Charley thought about this for a minute. "I don't know," he repeated. "But I bet it has something to do with Mamie Steppe."

"You think everything that happens to Meg has something to do with Mamie."

Charley looked at Harvard pityingly. "You've met the woman," he stated. "Can you tell me anything different?"

He had a point, Harvard thought. "But what can we – "

Without warning Charley got to his feet and peered down the road. "Here she comes," he said with some relief. "Get in the house. Meg'll have our hides if she finds us waiting out here for her in the middle of the night." He hopped over the hedge as Harvard scrambled to his feet. "Keep your eyes open," Charley called, his voice drifting across the lawn. "And your hands to yourself!"

The last thing Harvard heard before he shut the door behind him was Charley's faint laughter.

He was too tired to plan a way to catch Charley with Whitney at an inopportune time. He kind of thought it wouldn't be that hard to do, given the sappy expression on the man's face whenever she was singing. Or laughing. Or breathing.

He also needed to devise a foolproof dinner plan that didn't involve either chicken (the cause of the salmonella, and his mother had been wrong – he'd had it twice) or noodles.

And he needed to figure out how to get Meg to tell him what was going on at The Glass Slipper.

That may be the toughest one of all.

*** *** ***

Meg woke up Friday morning feeling about the same as she had the night before when she'd stumbled up the stairs and into her bed, fully clothed.

Absolutely wretched.

She lay in bed and tried to fall back asleep, but she could hear movement in the apartment below her and smashed her face into her pillow, cursing the day Harvard Kingston set foot in the state of Michigan.

Well, not really, she told herself glumly. Even though their first meeting had been less than stellar, she couldn't quite bring herself to wish it had never happened.

And that, in a nutshell, was the problem.

How could a guy almost kiss a girl – and he would have, too, if it hadn't been for Whitney's poorly-timed interruption – and then the very next day go and have lunch dates with two other women?

It wouldn't be so bad, she thought as she squeezed her eyes shut to keep the images of all those girls fawning over Harvard out of her mind, if it hadn't happened every day that week.

All right, never mind that last bit. It just made it worse.

Whitney was puttering around the kitchen when Meg stumbled, freshly showered, into the kitchen. "What's wrong?" Whitney asked, looking her over. "You look like you haven't slept in days."

There were so many answers to that question that Meg hardly knew where to start. Between Mamie's threat to sell the shop and Harvard's dating practices, it wasn't like her mind-set had been blissfully clear.

"It's Harvard, isn't it," Whitney said before Meg could decide which subject to bring up first. "I can't tell you how sorry I am about what happened Sunday. I should have checked before I walked in that day."

Meg rubbed her eyes. "Whitney. We've been over this a dozen times. Please don't worry about it."

Whitney looked unconvinced but didn't pursue it. "Well, then what's the problem? Are you anxious for a repeat?" She shot a sly look at Meg out of the corner of her eye.

"No." Meg took a bowl out of the cupboard and slapped it on the counter. "Not at all."

Whitney waited until she'd sat at the table with her breakfast before saying anything else. "Are you losing sleep over the fact that Harvard's pretending to be a player?"

Meg didn't look up. "I don't think 'pretending' is the right word."

"Oh, I think he's got his eyes set on someone in particular," Whitney said, and smiled when Meg scowled at her. "His main problem is that he's too gorgeous for his own good. Someone needs to break his nose for him."

Meg let out a surprised bark of laughter. "You've been hanging around Charley too much."

Whitney shrugged, but not before her cheeks turned pink. "It's true," she said, and checked on something in the oven. "I've seen the way the girls in the stores look after him. It's like they're piranhas who've just been given fresh meat. For all we know they've resorted to hypnotizing the poor guy."

Meg snorted. "Right. And I guess the only way to break the spell is for him to kiss a beautiful princess."

Whitney laughed. "I hardly think he'd be opposed to the idea. You should offer and see what happens. Maybe all the other girls will disappear in a cloud of heavily perfumed smoke." The oven timer beeped, and she pulled a large puffed pancake out. She sliced a piece and slid it across the table. "I've got to go. I told Charley I'd bring him breakfast as a thank you for the driving lessons. Oh, and you dropped some papers when you got in last night." She pointed her chin toward the far counter. "What were you doing out so late, anyway?"

The plate in front of Meg suddenly seemed very interesting. "Just puttering around," she mumbled, knowing that Whitney would see through her vague answer. "You know, a little organizing . . . "

Whitney stood in the middle of the kitchen and looked at her friend quizzically. "You've been 'organizing' for the past week," she said bluntly. "What's up? Are we being audited? Although why any auditor would need to see the storage room is beyond me. Wait," she said, her eyes widening. "Are you trying to avoid Harvard?"

It would be so easy to let Whitney think that, but Meg couldn't bring herself to lie to her first girlfriend. "No," she told her. "I'm not avoiding anyone."

"Hmm. Well, I'd stay and grill you some more but I've got to go. I'll talk to you when I get back." She gave Meg a look that clearly meant, 'and we'll continue this conversation whether you like it or not'.

Meg finished her pancake slowly. She suddenly needed a reason to be out of the house. She grabbed the papers Whitney had left for her and headed toward the family room, stopping when she read the one on top. _Mr. Shumacher from The Warbling Bird Assisted Living Center called for Daisy Duke._ She'd gathered all her weird-old-man notes and brought them home, thinking they were just too funny to leave at the shop. They must have fallen out of her purse when she dropped it by the door . . .

As soon as she finished reading the note she knew where she was going that morning.

*** *** ***

Unfortunately, Mr. Shumacher was not available. "I'm sorry," the girl – Lucy, according to her name tag -- at the front desk said almost fearfully when Meg asked for him. "But he's no longer with us."

"He's been moved somewhere else?" This surprised Meg slightly, but she had never had a reason to be in an assisted living center before and had no idea how they worked.

"Well, I guess you could say that . . . " Lucy's eyes flickered to a door to the right that was labeled 'manager' before she smiled weakly and took a deep breath. "I'm afraid Mr. Shumacher, bless his soul, has . . . um, he's . . . "

All of a sudden Meg understood. "He's died," she said matter-of-factly.

Lucy sagged in relief. "Yeah."

"But he called the shop just two weeks ago," Meg said. "When did he pass away?"

"Two weeks ago." Lucy didn't hesitate.

"Right," Meg said slowly. "I guess that makes sense."

Lucy looked a little sad. "You're the lady from the shoe store, aren't you. I remember talking to you." She glanced down at Meg's feet and sighed dreamily. "I love your shoes. Maybe I'll come in after I get my paycheck and get me some of those."

Meg absently handed her a business card. "Call first to make sure I'm there. My name's Meg. The current owner has a different idea of fashion than I do."

Lucy's expression turned serious, and she winked solemnly, making Meg laugh. "Right," she said slowly. "I get it. I'm sorry I didn't have good news about Mr. Shumacher."

Meg couldn't resist asking, even though she was pretty sure it was inappropriate. "What happened to him?"

Lucy looked around and leaned closer. "It was his heart," she whispered. "I don't know exactly what happened, but it was rather sudden."

"I thought he was sick," Meg said, tapping her fingers on the counter and trying to remember what Mr. Shumacher has sounded like. "I could have sworn he was on a respirator."

"Oh, he was." Lucy nodded. "But his thumper was okay for an eighty-nine-year-old man."

Meg shrugged. "Well, I'm sorry I was too late to come see him. He sounded pretty lively over the phone; I was looking forward to meeting him."

Lucy looked past Meg and straightened up. "He didn't have very many visitors. Just that Daisy lady." She smiled apologetically.

"That's okay. Thanks for the help."

And with that Meg's foray into the world of assisted living centers was over.

The thought of going home (and possibly facing Whitney's game of ask-Meg-pointed-questions-until-she-spills-her-guts) wasn't very appealing, but after wandering around for the rest of the morning Meg found herself turning down her street and into her driveway. Whitney's car was gone, and Meg thanked the god of picked-on roommates for granting her a few extra hours of peace. She thanked him again when she saw Whitney's note on the kitchen table saying that she'd be out with Charley for the rest of the day.

Harvard hadn't told her what time to be ready for dinner, and even though she knew she should call him, she just couldn't bring herself to do it. She grimaced as images of kissy-faced women gave him their phone numbers. For all she knew he'd forgotten the whole thing.

Ah, her internal Whitney-voice said. Do you _want _him to forget?

"Shut up," she said crossly. "I don't care what Harvard Kingston does with his spare time."

Liar, liar, pants on fire, sang the imaginary Whitney.

"I'm not lying!"

The voice didn't return, but Meg felt twitchy the rest of the afternoon.

She changed her clothes into something that looked very businesslike on the off chance that Harvard would show up at some point, ambled around the apartment a few times, and picked up things that weren't out of place. Finally she gave an exasperated sigh, threw down an innocent throw pillow, and escaped outside. Her father had built a small deck next to her front door, and she flopped onto her swing and tried not to listen for sounds coming from the apartment below her.

When Harvard found her there an hour later, she was fast asleep.

*** *** ***

Harvard was never cooking again.

He'd found the perfect kitchen appliance. A crock pot had seemed foolproof at the time – just dump the ingredients in the thing and leave it alone. (It was the 'leave it alone' idea that had really hooked him.) And there was the added benefit that he didn't even have to be in the kitchen to use the thing. He could plug it into his bathroom socket if he wanted.

But the thing that emerged from his brand new, state-of-the-art crock pot didn't look anything like the picture in the cookbook. In fact, it resembled the hind quarters of one of those weird pink-bottomed monkeys that threw unmentionable things at each other at the zoo.

There was no way he could serve that to Meg if he couldn't even stomach looking at it.

He stared at his dining room table and thought fast. Unfortunately, the only solution he came up with was a frozen pizza. (It would be hard to explain the pizza delivery guy, or the box, or the lack of succulent pizza smells, or . . .)

His finger was halfway to tugging his collar away from his neck when he remembered he wasn't wearing a collared shirt, and he groaned. It was already a quarter after six, and Meg was most likely either angry or had given up on him and was making her own meal.

That thought wasn't as bad as it sounded. Maybe he could man up, confess his absolute ineptitude in the kitchen, and beg her to make him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

He was halfway to his door when the doorbell rang. He sprinted toward it, half expecting to see Meg, but instead was faced with an older, smiling woman.

In a frilly apron.

And, best of all, carrying a box filled to the brim with things that smelled both edible and divine.

"You must be Harvard," she said, and handed him the box before pushing her way past him. "I'm Ruby."

Ruby? Harvard mouthed. "Should I know you?" he called as he trailed after her.

"Jillian rang me this morning and told me you might need a little help with dinner. Where's the kitchen?" Without waiting for a reply, Ruby headed down the hall.

Under normal circumstances Harvard would have cursed his mother for interfering in his personal life, but all he could feel was an overwhelming sense of gratitude. He'd have to include a case of Belgian chocolates with his dad's golf balls.

"Harvard!"

He jumped and almost dropped the box when he looked behind him for his mother.

"Harvard! Hurry up before the food gets cold!"

How could women of a certain age all sound the same when they were ordering their (or their friend's) children around? Harvard ran to the kitchen. "I'm sorry, Miss Ruby. And thank you so much."

She was standing by his defunct crock pot, her lips pursed. "What is this?"

He dumped his precious box next to her and took a deep breath. "It was supposed to be a roast."

Ruby craned her neck closer to it and peered inside. "Whatever did you do to it? Never mind," she said when she saw Harvard's pained expression. "Something tells me I don't want to know. Now, get cracking. Put the rolls in the oven to warm for ten minutes; that way the house will smell nice and yeasty. Where's your flour?"

Harvard had never bought flour in his life. "Um . . . "

Ruby patted his arm. "Don't worry, honey. It's purely for aesthetic reasons." She started pulling things out of the box. "Ah, here we are." She pulled out a small container, dipped her fingers inside, and smudged them across Harvard's nose. "There you go. All set. Now, put this on the table and go get your girl. Feel free to let her think it was all your doing!" She winked at him, patted him on the bum, and sailed out like an angel of culinary mercy.

Ten minutes later Harvard was pounding up Meg's stairs. He stopped in his tracks when he saw her sleeping on the swing with her feet tucked underneath her.

The wind ruffled her hair and made her skirt shiver over the side of the swing. "I could come home to this every day without any problem," Harvard said to himself, and his eyes grew wide. Had he really just implied that he could _marry_ this girl? He was years away from marriage. Wasn't he?

And he hadn't even kissed her yet. Not that he hadn't thought about it more times than was probably healthy, but still. Marriage? He'd only known her for three months!

The thought, however, was surprisingly comfortable. Even a little bit exciting.

His thoughts were interrupted when Meg shifted and her eyes fluttered open. She blinked at him a few times. "Harvard? What are you doing here?"

Had she forgotten their date? She must still be half asleep. Harvard leaned against the railing and tried to hide his marriage-induced nervousness.

"Oh." She didn't move.

"Are you ready to go downstairs?" This love business was for the birds. He'd never felt nearly this pathetic when picking up a girl before. Of course, they'd never looked at him the way Meg was staring at him now, either. "I'm here to collect you for dinner."

Meg uncurled herself from her seat and stood up, shaking her legs to get the sleep out of them. "Um . . . yeah. Hold on. I wasn't entirely expecting . . . " She wandered into the house, leaving a confused Harvard to wait for her.

He was still trying to figure out what she wasn't expecting when she came back out, her hair pulled back into a low ponytail. He smiled a little more confidently and gestured to the steps. "Dinner awaits, milady." She didn't look at him before descending.

Dinner was . . . strange. Meg was politeness personified; she remarked on the flowers, ate everything with painstaking care (he half wondered if she was counting the number of times she chewed each bite) and even said it was one of the best chicken dishes she'd ever eaten. When she'd politely asked for the recipe he'd said something vague (and entirely truthful) about not having permission to give it out.

But when she politely placed her napkin on the table and politely thanked him for a lovely dinner, he'd had enough. "All right, Miss Bailey," he said crisply, thinking that he could play the nice game just as well as she could. "Would you like to tell me what's going on?"

Meg's eyes narrowed. "Nothing's _going on_, Mr. Kingston. I was just trying to be – "

"Polite. I know. You could win awards for your current level of polite." Man, he was getting sick of that word. He considered the legality of banning if from public speech in the mall.

Meg's expression turned frosty. "Maybe I should just go upstairs. Thank you again, Mr. Kingston."

That last 'Mr. Kingston' was all it took to make Harvard explode. "What's wrong with you?" he snapped, rising to his feet when she did. "Just five days ago we were speaking like civilized, rational human beings, and now, without warning, you've turned into a Stepford!"

"You should have 'stepford' down pat," she cried. "And just five days ago we were _not_ speaking like rational human beings. You were trying to kiss me! And then you went and _bought all those women lunch_!"

"What?" Harvard didn't mean to yell that out but he was so exasperated he couldn't help it. "So I bought a bunch of women lunch. It's not like I'm going to marry all of them!"

Meg stared at him disbelievingly. Harvard stared back until the conversation he'd had with Kyle about this very subject made his eyes lose focus. What had Kyle said again? _Every time you purchase a woman a meal she feels justified in calling it a date._

Crap.

Crap, crap, crap.

Hang on, though. Was Meg jealous?

A grin crept across his face no matter how hard he tried to stop it. When she saw it, Meg let out an infuriated noise and pushed her chair back so hard it fell on the floor.

"Hey, calm down," Harvard said, almost tripping over his own feet to get to her side before she could escape. "I wasn't dating those girls. It wasn't what it looked like. At all."

Meg leaned over and picked up her chair. When she straightened up again her face was calm. "You know, Harvard, I don't care what you do. But I have not been placed on this earth to be your – "

"Lunch is the easiest time to interview people," Harvard blurted out.

Her mouth was still open, but she blinked a few times before any sound came out. "Excuse me?"

Harvard took a deep breath. "One of my assignments for work is to talk to an employee from each of the stores," he told her, hoping she wouldn't ask him questions he couldn't answer. "It seems that most shop owners are sending me their daughters. Or nieces. Or single second cousins once removed." And in some cases wives, but that thought made him so squirrely that he couldn't voice it.

"And I supposed male shop owners are too busy to come and talk to you themselves."

He had nothing to say to that.

"So when are you going to interview someone from The Glass Slipper?"

"I already did, last week."

Harvard cursed himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth. They floated in the air between them and he watched in resignation as Meg's eyes widened and then narrowed.

"Last week," she said slowly. "You were interviewing me during our soup dinner, weren't you." It wasn't a question.

Wincing, Harvard sat down hard in Meg's chair. "I didn't mean to at first," he said, and rubbed his face. "I wanted to find out more about you and the logical place to start was work. Before I knew it the questions I'd compiled for my interviews were coming out. And it was much more pleasant to talk to you than to have to take Mamie or Brittany out to lunch." He grimaced.

Meg looked at a spot on the wall over his shoulder. "So how'd I do?"

Harvard rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. "Brilliantly."

The room was quiet for so long that Harvard began to think Meg had left. But when he raised his face, she was still standing there, staring at him with a quizzical look.

"Why – " She stopped and shook her head.

"I can't tell you," he said wearily. "I promised my firstborn child that no one would know before my dad had a chance to make his grand announcement."

All the fight seemed to drain out of Meg. "Please tell me you don't actually have a firstborn child hidden away somewhere."

He laughed weakly. "No. And for the record, I'm not dating any of those girls you saw me with in the food court. I'm too busy chasing you to have time for anyone else."

Meg blushed. "Flattery will not make me kiss you, Harvard."

Well, there went that idea. "How about flowers and chocolates?"

She shook her head, but she smiled her first genuine smile of the evening. "Nice try." She gathered up her dirty dishes before Harvard could stop her and went into the kitchen. When she reemerged her face was composed, but her eyes were laughing at him. "Your kitchen is remarkably clean for a man who's just cooked a gourmet meal," she said, and leaned down to brush her finger along his cheekbone. "The flour is a nice touch, by the way. You'll have to tell your chef that I appreciated all her hard work."

Harvard couldn't find it in himself to pretend he'd cooked. Not with her finger still touching his skin. "I will," he promised, and tried to get his wits together when her hand dropped to her side. "Shall we go into the family room? I think we need a change of scenery."

They sat on the couch, and Meg only raised her eyebrows at him when he reached over and placed her feet on his legs. He smiled rakishly at her and shrugged. "I don't have a whole lot of experience in chasing girls," he confided, running a finger up the inside of her foot and laughing to himself when it twitched. "You'll have to tell me when I mess up."

"I'm not sure which part of that statement to respond to first," she said drily, but rested her head against the pillows of the couch and smiled faintly.

So far, so good, Harvard thought. He'd have to phrase his next question very carefully. "How are things going at the shop? I haven't seen you around in a few days."

As soon as Meg tensed he knew he'd said something wrong. "Everything's fine," she said calmly. If he hadn't been holding her foot he would never have guessed that she was upset. "I've just been a little busy, that's all."

"Anything I can do to help?"

Her eyes opened, and for a second Harvard was sure she was going to tell him what was bothering her. "Nope. But thanks for asking."

They gazed at each other for a long second before Harvard dropped his eyes in defeat. "No problem. But you know I'm here if you need anything. Anything at all."

Meg smiled at him. "Are you sure you have no practice in chasing girls?"

As he was walking down her stairs later that evening, Harvard couldn't help but feel a little encouraged. Meg had given him all sorts of signals tonight, and he was very, very good at reading girls' signals. She hadn't told him that he was in over his head, she hadn't told him to get lost, and she definitely hadn't told him to take his lovesick heart and feed it to the seagulls.

Instead, she'd been jealous.

Now, jealousy was not the sort of emotion he wanted Meg to feel – after all, there was no contest between Meg and any woman in existence – but it did occur to him that behind every instance of jealousy lurked another emotion.

He wasn't going to call it love.

At least, not until he could convince Meg Bailey that falling in love with him was the best thing that could ever happen to him – er, her.

And he had a whopping seven weeks to do it in.

It was time to get serious.

**Author's note**: I know it's been more than two months. I'm sorry. My excuse is simple: baseball season. (And a lot of other stuff, but that's the one I'm going with.) I'll do my best to update sooner next time!


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Meg stared out the front window of the Glass Slipper at nothing in particular and twirled a pen around in her fingers. It was Monday afternoon, Whitney was at lunch, and for once the hordes of women who'd flocked into her shop looking for footwear that was, in her opinion, unsuitable to wear to the upcoming festival had left her mercifully alone.

So, instead of doing something productive from Mamie's unproductive, hateful list like she should have been doing, Meg sat and let her mind replay her dinner with Harvard.

Again.

She knew she should stop thinking about it. After all, she was a grown woman, not a lovesick teenager, and therefore should know better.

But for some reason she kept hearing him say, "_I'm too busy chasing you to have time for anyone else_."

The sentence was ridiculously addicting.

"There you are."

Meg flushed guiltily when she heard Harvard's voice. There's nothing like the object of your daydreams magically appearing in front of you, she thought wryly, especially when you were just thinking about him. He sauntered over to the cash register, both hands clasped behind his back, looking very pleased with himself. "I've been here every day," she told him tartly, grinning to wipe the sting from her voice. "You can't have been looking for me all that hard."

Harvard stopped in front of the cash register. His expression had turned so intense Meg started to think that maybe she'd said something wrong. "Oh, I've been looking all right, Miss Bailey," he said softly. "I'm just finding that it's hard to chase someone who refuses to cooperate with the plan."

"Maybe you should tell me what the plan is and then I'll decide whether I want to cooperate with it or not."

Harvard stood there for a second and stared at her before a slow smile crossed his face. "I wouldn't dream of it," he said finally, a sudden room-lighting smile flashing on his face. "After all, the anticipation of the unknown is almost more enjoyable than knowing what's coming next."

With that, he withdrew his hands from behind his back and produced a small bundle of red hand-tied tulips. "To replace the ones I inadvertently murdered."

And then he was brushing past a wide-eyed Whitney, who was lingering awkwardly in the doorway, and was out of the shop, whistling something that sounded suspiciously like "A Kiss to Build a Dream On."

"I had no idea Harvard listened to your flavor of music," Whitney said, her tone not as surprised as Meg might have expected. "What was he doing here?"

For the life of her Meg couldn't remember. Had he even said? Then her fingers tightened around the flowers, and she lifted them to her face. She closed her eyes as she drank in their familiar fragrance.

Whitney regarded her with ill-disguised amusement. "I see," she said slowly. "It would appear that Harvard has come a-courtin'."

A group of shoppers burst through the door with impeccable timing and the next thing Meg knew she was surrounded by elderly women oohing and aahing over her flowers. "Honey, where did you get those from?" asked a particularly shrewd lady with half-moon spectacles wobbling on the end of her nose.

Meg sighed and gave her flowers to Whitney, who had magically produced a vase that she didn't know they had. "They're from a friend, Mrs. Mims," she said with finality. She ignored the look Whitney gave her as she started straightening a display table. "Are you ladies looking for anything in particular?"

The rest of the afternoon flew by in a blur of shoes, organizational tools, and Whitney's questioning looks, which Meg tried studiously to avoid. It was almost a relief when Charley came by to pick Whitney up, leaving Meg alone in the shop to make her way slowly through Mamie's long list.

It took a long time that night to finish the work she'd set for herself, mostly because she kept glancing at her tulips and losing her place in her alphabetizing. She'd sigh and turn back to her task only to find her eyes drifting once again to the vase that she'd mistakenly perched on the shelf in front of her. She finally gave up in disgust, threw her list under the cash register, and left, not sure if she should be irritated or sickened by her inability to use her brain.

She did, however, grab the flowers on her way out the door.

She was bone tired when she trudged up the stairs to her apartment. Whitney was waiting for her outside, swinging slowly back and forth, a mug of hot chocolate in her hands to ward off the chill.

"I've lived here my entire life," she said wryly as Meg dropped unceremoniously next to her, "and I still think it's strange that we drink stuff like this to keep us warm in June." She sipped from her mug and then glanced at Meg speculatively. "Are you going to tell me what's going on between you and Harvard or am I going to have to torture the information out of you?"

Meg kicked off her shoes and leaned even further back into the swing. "It's kind of late for a heart-to-heart, don't you think?" she asked, trying not to yawn.

"If you were home earlier I wouldn't have to resort to this." Whitney peered at her over the rim of her cup. "What exactly is it that's keeping you at work so late, anyway?"

Maybe having a roommate wasn't the best idea she'd ever had, Meg thought. "Just clearing out the storage room," she said. She wished she were more awake; maybe then her excuses would sound more believable.

Whitney snorted into her hot chocolate. "If that room got any more organized it'd be translated," she muttered. "What else do you still have to do?"

Shrugging, Meg closed her eyes. "I don't really know."

"Oh." Whitney stared out over the backyard, her expression pensive. "Maybe you could show me what you're doing. I'd like to help."

"Sure," Meg said drowsily. Her mouth was two and a half seconds ahead of her brain, but when she realized what she'd said she couldn't find the energy to feel uneasy. "But aren't you going to be too busy going to school to worry about things in the shop? I don't want to get in the way of your studies."

"I want to help."

Meg shrugged and decided she'd figure it out in the morning. "Okay. Maybe once all the excitement over this festival thing dies down and business goes back to normal."

Whitney nodded. "Okay."

They sat there on the dark porch, the only sounds the creaking of the swing and muffled singing coming from the downstairs apartment that sounded like Peggy Lee. Maybe, Meg thought, she was influencing Harvard's music more than she realized. The idea made her smile to herself.

"So, what's going on with you and Harvard?"

That simple statement woke Meg up more than their entire conversation about Mamie's list had. "Nothing's _going on_," she said as her fingers unknowingly clutched tighter around the vase.

Meg could almost hear Whitney's eyes roll. "I'm not stupid, you know," Whitney told her, sounding exasperated. "He obviously likes you. Why are you being so standoffish?"

"I'm not – "

"Yes, you are!" Whitney cried, surprising Meg with both the interruption and the volume. "Are you blind? The man's gorgeous, kind, charming, stable, and straight. And he happens to be head over heels for you. What's not to like? Are you secretly seeing someone that I haven't noticed?"

"No," Meg snapped back. "And for your information, I like Harvard. A lot. Too much for my own good, probably."

"Then I don't get it."

Sighing, Meg leaned down to place the flowers on the deck. When she sat back up she turned to face Whitney. "Do you know how long he's going to be here?"

Whitney shook her head slowly.

"Neither do I. That's why I'm so – how did you put it? – standoffish."

By the end of the sentence Meg's voice was defeated, even to her own ears, and Whitney leaned over to put her arm around Meg's shoulders. "You're not too keen on the whole long-distance relationship thing."

Meg shrugged and rested her head on Whitney's shoulder. "I can't leave the shop," she said quietly. "It's all I have left of my mother. And I can't really see Harvard settling down here long-term just because he happens to fancy a girl that works at one of his many properties."

Whitney's arm tightened around Meg, and she laughed quietly. "I wouldn't be so sure about that if I were you," she said. "Harvard seems pretty smitten."

"For now, maybe."

They were quiet for a long time, and Meg let Whitney propel the swing for a few minutes. "I guess I'm pushing him away because the more time we spend together the more I realize how easily I could fall in love with him," she finally said with a sigh.

"That's a moot point, because I think you already have."

Meg closed her eyes. Deep down, she knew Whitney was right. "You're probably right," she admitted so quietly that she almost couldn't hear herself.

Whitney didn't say anything, a fact for which Meg was entirely grateful. She took a second to breathe in the cool night air. So she loved Harvard. She'd been wondering, and somehow, the actual verbalizing of the sentiment made it that much more real. Her heart grew a little in her chest and she grinned and gazed up at the stars. It wasn't an entirely unpleasant feeling, this being in love business – heart palpitations and all. But yet . . . "And that scares the crap out of me."

They stopped swinging several minutes later and headed inside. Whitney examined her face for a second, then squeezed her arm gently and whispered, "It'll all work out somehow." It wasn't until Meg closed the door firmly behind her that she noticed how quiet it was outside, and she wondered exactly when the music from downstairs had stopped.

Harvard sat in his kitchen Friday morning and stared out the window as Meg wrestled the lawnmower out of the shed.

He got to his feet to help her, but as soon as he reached the back door Charley emerged from around the side of the house, shook his head at Meg, and hip-checked her out of the way. Meg scowled at him good naturedly, but relinquished the mower and made her way back toward the house. Harvard ducked around the doorjamb so she wouldn't see his stalkerish tendencies.

It wasn't like he was doing it on purpose, he argued with himself as he loaded the dishwasher slowly. After all, it was hardly his fault that his kitchen window overlooked the back yard.

Or that it was directly under her deck, where, evidently, she liked to have heart-to-hearts with her roommate while he happened to be in working.

With his window wide open.

If he thought 'happened' one more time during this interior monologue he was pretty sure his eyes would pop out.

He sat back at the kitchen table and tried to look over all the notes he'd taken during the last week's round of interviews. But his gaze kept drifting outside, and he found himself watching with glazed eyes as Charley made his way slowly around the grass. Harvard chuckled to himself. It was funny to see the guy doing something besides measuring lace, polishing that thing he called a car, and mooning over a certain blonde upstairs.

Not Harvard's blonde, thank goodness. He shuddered just thinking of it.

Charley finally closed the shed door and trudged across the lawn and into Harvard's home. "Hey, man," he said before he flipped the faucet on and ducked his head under the cold spray. "I see you haven't done anything about that stalker business yet."

Since he'd just spent the past half hour convincing himself that he was perfectly innocent, Harvard didn't feel a burning desire to respond. "Do you usually mow the grass here?" he asked instead.

Charley pulled his head out of the sink and rubbed his eyes dry with the hem of his shirt. Harvard noted drily that he didn't seem too bothered by the water currently dripping off his hair and onto the floor. "Not usually," he said, "but before he left Arthur asked me if I'd keep an eye on things."

"Ah." Harvard watched as Charley took a can of soda out of the fridge and plopped down at the table next to him. "Make yourself at home," he added sardonically.

"You've been kind of quiet lately," Charley noted, glancing sidelong at his coconspirator. "What's up?"

Harvard lifted a shoulder and started to gather his papers. "Not much."

Snorting, Charley gave Harvard an unbelieving look. "So now you're Mr. Tall, Dark and Mendacious?"

"What does that even mean?"

Charley peered at Harvard over the top of his can. "I thought you went to an Ivy. Your parents' hard-earned money didn't go as far as they were hoping. Didn't they teach you anything?" Harvard closed his eyes, wondering why he even bothered. "It means lying, untruthful, dishonest, deceitful – "

"I get it. And I wasn't being _mendacious_, exactly."

Charley snorted again, and Harvard wordlessly handed him a box of tissues, which he ignored.

"Do you have a thesaurus?"

Harvard was pretty sure he knew where Charley was going with that. "All right, all right. I've been thinking, that's all."

"About Meg."

Why was he so transparent to everyone but the person who really mattered? And why was this so difficult to admit? Here he was, in the same room with the girl's best friend since they were in diapers, most likely, and all he had to do was tell him he had no idea what he was doing.

"Spill, man. I don't have all day. I have a hot date at a festival in like two hours. Time's a tickin'."

"It takes you two hours to get ready for a festival?"

Charley shoved his shoulder none too gently. "If you don't open your trap I swear – "

Maybe Whitney and Charley were more alike than he'd originally thought, Harvard mused. They seemed to share the same gift of pulling information out of unwilling bystanders.

So he opened his trap, as Charley had so eloquently stated, and the story came tumbling out, finishing off with, "And then the wretched event planner called, and I missed the end of the conversation."

"Your event planner called that late at night?"

"Some problem with the fortune teller," Harvard muttered absently. He had the nagging feeling that Meg had said something important while he was listening to someone rattle on about staffing issues.

Charley sat back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. "You're an idiot, aren't you? Why don't you just tell the woman the truth - that you don't know how long you'll be in Michigan but if she doesn't at least try the whole long-distance relationship thing you'll feed yourself to Mamie on a silver platter?"

Harvard twitched involuntarily. Some things just didn't bear even joking about. "She's already said – "

"Oh, Meg doesn't know what she's saying half the time. Especially when her heart's involved."

Harvard somehow didn't believe that was true, but he had nothing else to go on.

Charley was lounging in the family room watching television when Meg emerged from her room. "Are you here for Whitney?" she asked before narrowing her eyes at the screen. "And what in the world are you watching?"

He patted the cushion next to him. "Sesame Street. I'm waiting for Bert to go postal on Ernie."

Meg watched with him for a few seconds, then started to laugh. "It's been forty years," she said. "If they're both still standing now, there's a pretty good chance that'll stay that way."

He leaned forward to watch more closely. "No, I think this is it. Just wait. He's going to stuff that drum stick where the sun – "

"Charley?"

The remote dropped to the floor as Charley bounded to his feet. "Hey, Whit. Are you ready to watch my carnival game prowess?"

Whitney looked at him appraisingly. "I bet I could beat you," she said. Her lips pursed mischievously.

Charley's eyes widened. "Bring it on," he breathed. "Come on, Meg. You're coming with us."

"I can drive," she objected.

"I know that, and you know that, but your lover-boy downstairs had to rush off to fix some staffing situation at the festival and couldn't offer you a ride himself. So he sent me to the rescue. I secretly think he's doing it so he has an excuse to keep you all to himself."

Whitney caught Meg's eye and gave her a knowing look that made Meg's cheeks warm. "Okay," she told Whitney. "I can do that."

Charley looked between the two women, obviously confused, but they both ignored him. A slow, knowing smile appeared on Whitney's face. "Good," she said. "Let's go."

The field behind the mall had been transformed overnight, and Meg stood in the parking lot in a slight state of shock. "Wow," she muttered under her breath. "When the Kingstons decide to do something, they do it right."

"Did you expect anything less?"

Meg tilted her head up and squinted into the early afternoon sun. "No, Harvard. I guess I didn't."

He looked down at her with a satisfied expression. "I'm glad you finally realize that," he said. "Shall we go?"

They walked side by side, and Meg waved to a girl who worked in the jewelry shop across from The Glass Slipper. "You know a lot of people," Harvard commented, watching in amusement as the girl turned to her companion and whispered furiously.

Meg's pace slowed as she followed his gaze. "Oh, boy," she said, rolling her eyes. "Pretty soon the whole mall population will know that we were walking in the same direction."

Harvard laughed at loud. "Heaven forbid. She's probably wondering how in the world you managed it."

"Yes," Meg said, "especially since you never bought me lunch."

Harvard slowed down even further. "Speaking of lunch," he said, and then cleared his throat. "I was thinking I should remedy that."

"What are you talking about?"

"Lunch. I've bought lunch for five million people over the past two weeks, and I think it's high time I did the same for you."

"But you already interviewed me."

He leaned in close to her ear. "No one knows that but you and me," he whispered. "What do you say? Are you free Monday around noon?"

Meg stared up at him. Her brain was suddenly waltzing in a meadow filled with butterflies and bluebirds. Curse Whitney and her penchant for listening to Disney songs, she thought irritably. Now they're affecting my subconscious. "Um . . . "

Harvard beamed down at her and grasped her hand in his like he was shaking to seal a multi-million dollar deal. "Excellent. I'll clear my schedule for the entire hour. Now, what would you like to do first? Learn to juggle? Get a clown nose? Eat something deliciously deadly?"

Meg had to blink a few times to clear her head. "Whatever," she said faintly. She felt oddly like she'd been dumped into a pool from the high dive and had landed in a pile of something unexpected, like glitter. "Lead the way."

An hour later Meg was laughing so hard she had to bend over and clutch her knees so she wouldn't fall on the ground. Harvard stood next to her, a pained expression on his face as they watched a triumphant Whitney hand Charley the largest pink gorilla anyone had ever seen.

"What's wrong with you, Grimm?" he fairly shouted. "You just got schooled by a girl! At a carnival game!"

Finally catching her breath, Meg straightened up and glared at him. "Are you implying that girls are inferior to boys?" she demanded, narrowing her eyes at him.

Harvard took a step back, the elephant ear in his hand drooping to his side so powdered sugar drifted onto his shoe. "No – I didn't mean – that is, he should have – "

"Stop while you're ahead, Kingston," Charley advised. He didn't look bothered in the slightest by the fact that his winnings had been earned for him by Whitney. "My woman has skills. Skills, man. That's why I love her."

Whitney stared up at him, a shocked expression on her face.

"That's right, Miss Whitney," Charley grinned. Meg had never seen him so excited. "I am In Love. With you." And then, the gorilla's head tucked firmly under one elbow, he swooped her into his arms and kissed her, long and hard. Meg was fairly sure they both got a mouthful of pink fur, but neither one of them complained.

Someone wolf whistled and Charley finally pulled away, a rosy Whitney hiding her face in his neck. "Now, if you'll excuse us," Charley said, not taking his eyes off her, "we'll be on our way." And with an enormous amount of dignity, considering that he had the world's largest (and most ridiculous) carnival prize trailing on the ground behind him, the two of them ambled down the aisle of booths and out of sight.

Harvard kicked the toe of his shoe on the ground in a futile attempt to rid it of his snack. "Well," he said mid-kick, "I must say he's got style."

"That he does."

Meg had been staring off into the distance again (someone was going to think she'd lost her ability to multi-task pretty soon; she seemed to be doing a lot of mindless staring since Harvard came to town) when his quiet voice interrupted her thoughts. "What are you thinking about?"

"Oh," she said vaguely, "Charley, I guess."

"Care to expound on that?"

Meg shook herself internally and focused her eyes back on Harvard. "There's too much," she told him, smiling shakily. "The first thing he ever said to me was that my hair ribbon didn't match my shoes." She laughed. "I should have known then what he'd end up doing with his life."

"You guys have been best friends for a long time."

"We have." For some reason, she needed a hug.

When she glanced up at Harvard he was watching her steadily. He reached his arm across her shoulder and drew her to him so her head rested on his chest, and her hand snaked around his waist in a very comfortable one-armed embrace. They stood that way for what felt like a long time before she sighed and looked back up at him. "Thanks," she said quietly. "I needed that."

"Things are going to change in your world, aren't they."

"That they are," she sighed again. "That they are."

Harvard spent the next hour trying to make her laugh, and she was surprised by how successful he was. "You're entirely too good at this," she said at one point, when he'd given up trying to learn how to juggle after nearly hitting himself on the head for the fourth time.

They started walking aimlessly. There seemed to be fewer people down this row of booths. "Too good at what? You can't mean the juggling."

"Making me smile."

His sudden grin was infectious. "And that's bad because . . . "

"Because I could get used to it."

The words hung in the air between them until Meg cleared her throat uncomfortably and shifted her weight back and forth. She needed to change the subject. "You never told me what big staffing emergency you had to fix this morning," she said, hoping her tone was lighter than it sounded to her ears.

Harvard's eyebrows lifted, like he knew what she was trying to do but was willing to let her have her way this time. "Our fortune teller got food poisoning late last night and the event planner was having a fit," he explained. He placed his hand on the small of her back and they drifted on, not really paying attention to where they were going. "She wouldn't leave me alone until I told her just to put a 'closed' sign on the tent and not to worry about it." He grimaced. "She wouldn't believe me until I hung it up myself. There it is," he said, nodding to their left.

Sure enough, there was a small purple tent off to the side. "Why does it look different than all the other vendors?" Meg asked, curious.

"According to Susan – the planner – it makes it look more authentic."

Meg stared at the tent dubiously. The large white stars and moons that had been painted on the fabric gave the impression that someone had set a three-year-old loose with a white crayon and a purple wall. "If you say so."

Harvard laughed. "It's better inside. Come on, it'll be fun."

"Charley said the same thing to me right before I fell out of a tree and broke my arm."

His eyebrows rose at that, but he shook his head without saying anything and pulled her in behind him.

The small space was very . . . dark. And it smelled funny. "Incense," Harvard explained when she sniffed the air, and he switched on a small lamp in the corner. "Or so Susan tells me." He sat down on a low stool and watched as she explored the rest of the room.

"I've always wondered what I'd look like with dark hair," she remarked as she fingered a long black wig.

Harvard rested his elbows on his knees and smirked at her. "Try it on, but don't get any ideas in that pretty head of yours," he told her. "I like it just the way it is. No alterations allowed."

Meg was suddenly grateful for the dim light in the room as she twisted her hair up. "How'd you do that?" Harvard asked. He sounded fascinated.

Eyeing him strangely, Meg tugged the wig on and smoothed it down. "Do what?"

"That thing with your hair. One second it was down your back and the next it was sitting on top of your head."

She smirked at him. "It's a girl thing."

The sound he made was a cross between a croak and a rooster crow. "I can see that."

Meg watched him watch her until she started to get self conscious. He was staring at her so intently she was sure he could see her eyelashes grow, and she darted her eyes away, swinging her leg back and forth nervously.

And then her foot hit something hard and round.

Grateful for an excuse to get away from his never-ending stare – didn't the guy ever have to blink? Maybe she should put ophthalmologist on the top of her list of recommended doctors – she bent over and picked up -

A crystal ball. One end was slightly flattened out, so it wouldn't roll off a table, and right next to it was a switch. When she flipped it small lights illuminated inside. "Groovy," she breathed.

"Did you just say 'groovy'?" Harvard's tone was slightly amused.

"It seemed appropriate, given our surroundings," she told him loftily.

Harvard raised his eyes to the ceiling. "I could have sworn they outlawed that word in the seventies."

"Shut up and let me tell your fortune." Pulling a small table that was really a milk crate in disguise between them, she placed her ball on top and gave him her sweetest look. "It'll be fun."

"I hate it when people use my own words against me," he grumbled, but gazed into the ball with her.

"Are we supposed to see something in there?" he whispered after several long seconds.

She shrugged. "Beats me. Do you have anything you want to know?"

His head shot up. "Oh, I do, but I hardly think this is the place to ask those questions, Miss Bailey."

It's now or never, Meg thought. At least he couldn't see her blushing. She hoped. "Try me."

Harvard's eyes widened and then narrowed. "All right. I want to know why the object of my affections won't tell me what's going on in her shop."

"That's not a fair question," she snapped.

"You asked me what I wanted to know. That's it."

"Well, I'm not telling you."

"Aha!" he shouted, pointing a finger at her. "So there _is_ something!"

"Stop pointing at me!" Meg cried. "Isn't there anything else you want to ask?"

Harvard must have heard the panic in her voice, because his hand lowered and his next words were softer. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked that. It was very unfair of me." He paused before continuing. "But I still want to know."

She could feel her frustration ease a little. "There isn't that much to tell you. Just work stuff that you don't need to worry about." She gazed down at the ball in front of her. The lights inside weren't telling her anything helpful. "Do you still want me to tell your fortune?"

Harvard leaned back on his stool, an inscrutable expression on his face. "Only if you can tell me that a certain blonde shoe saleswoman will give me a chance."

Meg blinked a few times. Had he really just said what she thought he had? "How badly do you want that?"

Harvard's tone was as serious as she'd ever heard it. "Enough to chase with very little encouragement."

That made Meg's head jerk back. "Maybe I'd be more 'encouraging' if I knew you weren't going to make me fall for you and then go on your merry little way to do the same thing to another girl in another mall."

His eyes flashing, Harvard set his mouth in a thin line. "That could be very messy," he bit out. "And dangerous. And for your information, I have never chased after women for flings. They chase after me."

They stared at each other across the table, the soft lights from the crystal ball swirling over their faces. Meg wasn't sure if the thought of other girls throwing themselves at Harvard or the fact that he was so blasé about it was worst, and she was the first one to look away. "When we first met," she said conversationally, pushing her irritation aside for the sake of civility, "all we could do was argue with each other. I was kind of hoping we'd moved past that by now." It hadn't escaped her that Harvard's careful Princeton grammar had slipped a little in his indignation – she'd never heard him start so many sentences with a conjunction - and she took a deep breath. "Just so you know, I'm not going to chase you. That's not the way my brain's wired, even though I'm sure you're used to it. My problem is that I don't know what your expectations are, other than to drive me insane."

It took a few seconds longer than Meg might have liked for Harvard to respond. "I know why you have reservations about me," he finally sighed, slumping on his stool and rubbing a hand over his face. "I wish I could tell you that everything will work out happily ever after for us. But I honestly don't know what'll happen in August. I wish I did."

That little speech sealed Meg's fate for her, whether she admitted it to herself or not. Her heart, which had already been prone to expanding when it came to the dashing Mr. Kingston, swelled another two sizes and she almost fell off her chair from the shock. "Okay," she said almost inaudibly. "Let's see what happens if I follow along with – how did you put it again? – your plan."

Harvard's eyes flew to hers and his jaw opened and closed wordlessly until he cleared his throat and pulled at his collar. "Just for clarification," he said slowly, not taking his gaze from hers, "does this mean you'll agree to go out with me when I ask, without any second thoughts?"

Meg frowned. Was that what she'd been doing? "Yeah," she agreed. "That's what I mean."

"And you'll hold my hand?"

"Wasn't I just doing that?"

"All the time."

"If you want."

"Oh, Miss Bailey, you have no idea what I want to do to you." Harvard's grin put the outside sunshine to shame, and without warning he moved so close to her that she could feel his breath on her ear. "I'm not going to kiss you," he exhaled, "even though I really, really want to."

"You're not?" Meg couldn't keep the surprise (and disappointment) out of her voice.

"No. I want _you_ to kiss _me_ first. And you're not ready right now."

Before she could move her face forward to prove him wrong, a piercing voice shrieked its way into the tent.

"Brittany! Come here! I've found a fortune teller!"

Harvard cursed under his breath, stood up abruptly, and spun around, looking for the rear exit. He'd grabbed Meg's hand to tug her too her feet when a bright, unwelcome light burst in, momentarily blinding them both.

Harvard stumbled forward and disappeared with a muttered "oof" through a curtain just behind Meg, leaving her to gape at the space in horror. At least he'd managed to let go of her before he pulled her off her stool and onto the ground. "Harvard!" she hissed. "Where are you? Are you okay?"

She shot a quick glance toward Mamie, who was still standing semi-patiently outside, waiting for her daughter to follow her. She gave Harvard enough time to stick his hand out from his hiding place and stuff his handkerchief in Meg's direction. "Cover your face with this," he whispered, "and tell them what they want to hear so they'll go away and we can get back to our discussion."

By this time Meg was starting to have doubts about the truthfulness of the no kissing policy, but she took the handkerchief from him and tried to stick it under the wig so the Steppes wouldn't recognize her. To her amazement, there was a clip on each side of the wig to hold it in place, and she breathed out a silent prayer of relief to the god of misplaced fortune tellers.

"It's awfully dark in here," Brittany whined when Mamie pushed her into the room. "Do we have to do this? I saw Harvard coming down this way a while ago, and he's bound to be around here somewhere."

Meg took a good look at them and rolled her eyes. How did they expect to get around a carnival in five inch heels and skirts so short they made underwear look more modest?

"Be quiet, Brittany," her mother hissed. "We could find out how to snag Harvard for you once and for all." She nodded in Meg's direction, a fake smile plastered on her face. "We want to know how to catch a man. It's very important."

Meg thought about mentioning the 'closed' sign they'd just ignored. But a choking noise came from behind the curtain, and Meg tried to resist the urge to kick him. He wasn't helping. "What was that?" Mamie demanded, peering into the dim light.

"Nothing," Meg said in a deep, affected voice. "It's just my parrot. He speaks when he knows he isn't supposed to."

Brittany looked at her with an impressed look. "Can I see him?"

Harvard choked again, and Meg reached out behind her and thrust her arm into the curtain, getting a soft grunt in response. "I don't think that's a good idea. He can be very dangerous."

Mamie, who was obviously bored with the conversation, plopped herself on the stool Harvard had just vacated and crossed her arms over her ample chest. "How can Brittany get Harvard Kingston to marry her?"

Meg sucked in a breath and waited for Harvard to do something stupid, but not a sound came out from the back of the tent. "How badly does she want to snare this Harvard Kingston?" she asked. She had no idea what she was going to say, although the words "move to Antarctica" were very, very tempting.

"I want him. Any way I can." Brittany's usually high-pitched voice was determined and somehow lower than usual.

"So you love him, then?"

Brittany laughed like that was the dumbest thing she'd ever heard. "As if. I want him because he's handsome and rich and knows important people. And he can help me set up my own salon."

This was news to Meg; she'd assumed Brittany didn't have any career aspirations other than leeching off her mother. And Harvard. "I'm not sure the spirits will help me in your case," she said, hoping Brittany would buy this excuse. With her luck, Brittany'd be a closet mystic and would see right through her. "I get the best readings when the heart is involved," she added lamely.

"I don't care how you get the information. Look harder," Brittany ordered, annoyed with Meg's non-answer.

So Meg looked while her mind frantically tried to grasp onto something believable. She glanced up at Brittany's overly made-up face and her too-small clothes and felt a pang of sympathy that she neither expected nor wanted, and immediately felt guilty for feeling so mean. For all she knew Brittany was just as much a product of her environment as Whitney had been before she'd been brave enough to leave. She exhaled slowly and pretended to concentrate on the 'spirits' in front of her, noting in surprise that she could sort of see through it to the people sitting on the other side. There was a strange, tannish blob that quivered rhythmically. She couldn't place it but didn't want to look up to check.

"Well? What do you see?"

What Meg really saw, besides the blob, was her own reflection mirrored back at her, but she was pretty sure that wasn't what Brittany wanted to hear. She took a deep breath and looked Brittany straight in the eye. "Be yourself," she said decisively. "If this young man of yours – " she paused as a snort came from Harvard's direction – "is meant to be taken in, he'll appreciate who you really are, and not who you pretend to be."

Brittany sat there in stunned silence and pondered this. "That's a bunch of crap," she finally said. "I want my money back."

Meg stifled a smile. "The reading is free."

"Well, I still want my money back. I'm going to report you to – "

Mamie laid a manicured hand on her daughter's arm. "That's enough, Brittany. It's my turn now." She narrowed her eyes at Meg, who instinctively shrank back a few inches. "Tell me how to get rid of someone."

Meg's eyes widened so much she was sure they were going to fall onto the floor and roll under the curtain to hide with Harvard. "I don't help with illegal actions," she said with a small squeak.

Mamie's lips curled up in a strange sort of grimace. "Not that kind of get rid of. I need to persuade an unwanted employee to quit, and she's proving to be more stubborn than I thought."

If Meg's life could flash before her eyes it would have flashed and fled. She glanced over her shoulder to the back curtain and swallowed. So much for not telling him what was going on at work. "Like I told your daughter, I don't deal well with matters that don't involve the heart."

Mamie smiled slowly. "Oh, I think you can figure something out. Look into your crystal ball and tell me what you see." She laid a folded piece of paper on the table and pushed it toward Meg, who hoped it wasn't money but was too afraid to look.

"You're not going to get rid of this employee," she stated as calmly as she could. "The fates have decreed otherwise."

Mamie's face contorted with annoyance. "That can't be right," she seethed. "I've made her life a living hell for the past year and a half, hoping she'd get sick of it and quit." Meg's mouth fell open under Harvard's handkerchief. So that was why she'd been forced to work all those hours. "I even threatened to sell the shop to the worst businesswoman in the mall if she didn't complete all the items on my list without complaint, and she's still here."

Meg could hear Harvard mutter under his breath and hoped that Mamie was too busy with her tantrum to pay any attention. "She's not leaving," Meg said, her eyes spitting fire. "I have no doubt about that. Now, if there isn't anything else I can do for you, I have an appointment soon."

Mamie leaned in so her chin was almost on top of the crystal ball. "Look one more time and tell me what you see."

Gulping, Meg tore her eyes from Mamie's threatening ones and noticed once again the tan blob in front of her. With a sudden burst of inspiration she realized she was staring at Mamie's barely-covered chest and said the first thing that came into her mind.

"I see two large water balloons being popped and dripping all over the floor. Do you know what that could mean?"

Mamie gasped, jerked back, and clutched her chest protectively with her hands. Shooting to her feet, she grabbed Brittany by the back of her shirt and the next second they were gone.

Meg buried her face in her hands and waited for Harvard to come out of hiding. She had a feeling that her afternoon wasn't going to get better any time soon.

Harvard fell into the storage closet on cloud nine and out of it six feet under the ground.

He listened as Meg tried to convince Brittany to just be herself, although he felt like she was being a little unfair to the girl since there was no way he'd ever look at her any differently than he already did. But she didn't need to know about that.

As soon as Mamie started talking, however, thoughts of Brittany's unrequited greed scurried under the purple canvas, not to return. Was he really hearing correctly? Had Mamie been making Meg's life miserable, and then blackmailing her? It took all his self-control to stay where he was. All he could think of as the words kept coming out of the vile woman's mouth was, "Why didn't Meg tell me?"

Somewhere in his mind, hidden under his junior high locker combination, he knew why she didn't say anything to him. He just chose to ignore that very small rational voice, and instead focused on how angry he felt. The problem was that he wasn't sure if he was madder at Mamie for what she'd described, at himself for not seeing it, or at Meg for not telling him. He didn't even laugh at the way Meg got rid of the Steppes and their fake, over-filled chests.

Unfortunately for him, once Mamie left, the only person left in the tent that he could yell at was Meg.

"Would you like to tell me what's going on at work?" Harvard was pleased at how calm and even his words were. He'd even managed to keep them inside until he'd extricated himself from t he curtain. Maybe he wasn't as angry as he thought.

Meg pulled the wig from her head and put it back where she'd found it, keeping her face hidden. "You heard Mamie."

Okay, he _was_ as mad as he'd thought. "What were you thinking, Meg?" he cried his hands clenching into tight fists at his sides. "Why didn't you tell me what was going on? I could have – "

"What?" she cried, spinning around to face him. "You could have what, Harvard? Fired her? Kicked her out of the mall? Found her favorite pair of shoes and fed them to your pet iguana?"

"I don't have a pet iguana," he snapped. This whole situation had moved beyond frustrating and into the realm of the ridiculous.

Meg threw her hands into the air and marched toward the door. "I know that! You live in my house! Answer the question!"

"I could have stopped her."

Meg paused halfway out the door. "And just how would you have accomplished that?"

He followed her out into the sunshine and yelled to her retreating back, "I could have reported her!"

She stopped and slowly turned around. "No, you couldn't! You would just have made things worse!"

"What Mamie's doing is illegal, Meg, and you know it. Why are you putting up with it?"

That was the real question. Meg's face paled, and she closed her eyes. "I don't know," she admitted so quietly that he wasn't sure he'd heard her right. "I guess I just worried that if I didn't do what she said she'd find some loophole and kick me out of the shop. And then she found that foul woman to sell it to, and I panicked. I've already lost my mother, and my father, to an extent. I can't lose what little I have left of my life."

They stood in the deserted alley, both of them breathing heavily. Harvard sighed, and his shoulders drooped. He hadn't realized they'd been so tense. "You still have Charley, and Whiney," he told her and walked slowly toward her. "Did you tell them?"

"No."

He wasn't sure if he was relieved by that or not. On the one hand, she could have used the support, but on the other, he didn't want her to tell them and not him. "Why not?"

"Because it's my problem, not theirs. Charley has his own business to run, and Whitney's just started talking about school."

"I wish you'd told someone." Especially me, he added to himself.

Meg took a deep breath and reached out her hand to touch his arm. He froze and watched her face crumple, and the next thing he knew she was crying – huge, gulping sobs that sounded like she'd been bottling up the tears for a long, long time. He pulled her into his arms and let her cry herself out.

"I wanted to tell you," she gulped into his now-drenched shirt. "I did. But I didn't know how, and I wasn't sure . . . "

He rested his chin on top of her head and squeezed her a little tighter. "Of what?"

He felt her sigh against him. "I wasn't sure how you'd react. I must say, I didn't expect you to yell at me like that. But I probably needed to hear it."

A wave of tension started to seep from his pores. "Is there anything else I should know about, since you're in a forthcoming mood right now? What's this thing about a list?"

"It's what I've been doing at work so late every day," she mumbled. "Mamie gave me a list three feet long of impossible things to do around the shop and told me if I didn't do them she'd sell."

Harvard could feel his teeth grinding against each other. If he didn't stop soon he'd ruing thousands of dollars worth of dental work. "Anything else? I won't let you go until I know everything."

She laughed shakily and shook her head. "Only that a bunch of old guys has been calling the store recently, asking for people with ridiculous names. But you already knew that."

Harvard's hand froze as it stroked down her hair. He'd have to remember to do that again when he wasn't so distracted. The feel of her silky hair against his fingers was intoxicating. "I knew about that one guy. How many have there been?"

Meg shrugged. "I don't know, three or four. I lost track. But I have all their notes at home. I actually tried to find the last one; I found out where he was living and went to meet him, but I was a week too late."

Harvard had a feeling he didn't want to know. "Why?"

"He died a few days before I got there."

This sounded suspicious, especially given what he'd just learned about Mamie. "The next time you get another of those calls, try to get him talking and then we'll go investigate." He grinned suddenly, and Meg tilted her face up to see him. "It'd be one wicked date, that's for sure."

Meg laughed – really laughed – and wiped her face with the handkerchief she was still clutching. "You're so romantic."

"I'm not, actually," Harvard said lightly, taking her hand and winding her fingers through his as they walked back toward the main area of the carnival. It felt good to know that he now had a right to hold her hand. "My mother swears my romantic gene's been buried for years. But since I've met you it's come out in full force."

She blushed, but tightened her grip around his hand. "That's good to know."

Harvard spent the rest of the event watching Meg interact with the people she knew from the mall and resisting the urge to kiss her senseless right there in front of everyone. But he'd told her that he was a burgeoning romantic, and it was not romantic at all to have your first kiss in the middle of a festival surrounded by people who were already whispering about your dating habits, and most likely campaigning to be next in line when he came to his senses and was ready to fall in love with someone else.

And of course, he'd told her he wouldn't instigate any kissing action. He was starting to think that was the stupidest thing he'd ever said.

To get his mind off Meg and kissing, he tried to focus on the upcoming week. He had his 'lunch' with Meg on Monday, plans to set for a serious bout of wooing, and a meeting he now had to schedule with his lawyer. All he had to do in between all that was to think of a way to get rid of Mamie without ending up in a jail cell, figure out why old (and probably lecherous) men were calling the shoe store, and convince Meg to take the first step by planting one on him.

He glanced down into her sparkling eyes and couldn't keep the grin off his face. Right now he felt like he could tackle anything. Storming the caste had never looked like so much fun.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Charley was waiting for Meg on the steps of The Glass Slipper when she drove in the parking lot Saturday morning.

He did not look pleased.

He didn't even look up when she slammed her car door shut, focusing all his attention on the orange that he was systematically shredding to bits. Fat drops of juice fell on the ground, forcing Meg to step around them so she could sit on the step next to Charley.

"I'd ask what you're doing here so early, but I'm pretty sure I know."

Charley grunted in response. He still wouldn't look up at her.

Meg sighed and shifted uncomfortably. She hated it when Charley was angry at her. It hardly ever happened, thank goodness, but when it did she always felt like her world was misaligned. "I take it Harvard talked to you."

"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice wasn't accusing. Just quiet, and that made her feel even worse than if he'd yelled at her.

"You were a little busy," she whispered, looking down at her feet. "You have your own business, and you were chasing Whitney like your shoes were on fire, and . . . I didn't want my problems to get in your way. You've already done too much as it is."

"You told Kingston."

Meg cringed. She'd somehow known it would get to this. "Well, technically, Mamie told him," she said slowly. "I got stuck pretending to be a fortune teller for Mamie and Brittany and they couldn't keep their mouths shut. Then Harvard and I got into a yelling match and – "

"Fancy that," Charley said drily. He wasn't as intent as he had been on mangling his orange – or what was left of it. "You and Kingston in a shouting match. It's a wonder you ever agreed to go out with him in the first place."

That was truer than he knew, Meg thought, but the idea of Harvard made the corners of her mouth curl up into a half-smile. Charley finally glanced over at her and shook his head. "Ah, Meggie, I'm not really mad at you. Disappointed, maybe, but not mad."

"So I'm forgiven?"

He placed a sticky hand around her shoulders and squeezed tight. "There was never anything to forgive. But if you ever keep something like this from me again, so help me, Meg, I will personally tee pee your house so bad you'll have a hard time telling what color it is."

Meg shuddered – Charley's tee peeing skills were legendary in high school – and nodded. "I love you, Charley."

He squeezed harder before ruffling her hair with his other hand. "I know, Meg. Back at you." He paused then, and when he spoke again his words had a teasing quality to them that Meg recognized all too well. "Are you sure there isn't anything else you want to tell me?"

She tore her gaze away from his orange juice-covered hand (that was suspiciously close to her hair) and looked up into his face. "Um . . . no?"

"Are you sure? There isn't some juicy gossip about you and your housemate?"

Meg suddenly realized he was referring to Harvard, but wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of pulling information out of her too easily. "Oh, that," she said airily. "Whitney and I have decided to sell everything and move to Tooele, Utah. Wanna come?"

Charley's mouth hung open for several long seconds before he snapped it shut. "Stop kidding around," he scolded her. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Well, if you already know, then maybe you should fill me in." Meg rested her chin on her hand and peered up at him.

Making a disgusted noise, Charley grabbed the remains of his breakfast and started to eat. "Rumor has it that a certain Harvard Kingston is off the market."

Meg could feel her cheeks flushing, and Charley smirked at her knowingly. "Oh, really?"

"Yes, really. My sources tell me that Mr. Kingston was seen at the festival walking hand-in-hand with a certain Meg Bailey. Are you sure there isn't anything else you haven't told your best, most devoted, and finest-looking friend?"

"Whitney already knows. She predicted it a long time ago."

"Very funny. You're dating Harvard. And you like it."

Meg could feel herself blushing – again – and Charley leaned back in triumph. "You're in love with him!" he cried, grinning wildly. "You are!"

"I am," she said quietly moments before Charley threw his arms around her in a bone-crushing hug. "But please don't break up with him. At least, not until I've kissed him."

Charley pulled away from her in shock. "You can't mean – that is, I was so sure he'd – no way." He started to laugh uncontrollably. "You must have that poor man whipped, Meg. I can't believe that the famous Harvard Kingston, dater extraordinaire, hasn't kissed the girl of his dreams. What'd you do to him in that fortune teller's tent, anyway? Cast a spell on his masculinity?"

"I didn't do anything," she retorted, and got to her feet. "Believe me, his masculinity is just fine the way it is. He just . . . told me he'd wait for me to make the first move, that's all."

From the look on his face Charley had a number of very pointed things to say about this, but the only words out of his mouth were, "He's just scared to mess up the real deal, that's all." He glanced at his watch and followed her into her store. "I'd tell you to just plant one on him, but I think he's earned a little pain and frustration. Hold out as long as you like and then wait an extra day or two for me."

Meg winked at him and stowed her bag under the cash register, knocking Mamie's list to the floor. Charley scooped it up and jammed it in his pocket. He winked back at her, unlocked the front gate, and whistled "Heigh-Ho" as he walked to his own store.

Harvard walked into the shop at exactly twelve o'clock Monday, as promised. He had a sack lunch in one hand and a bundle of envelopes in the other.

"Are you going through a midlife crisis?" Meg asked, eyeing his letters. "I didn't peg you as a mailman."

He dropped everything on the counter and tossed an envelope next to the cash register. "That one's for Mamie and Brittany," he said with a dismissive tone. "Here's yours."

Meg raised an eyebrow at him but slit the envelope open. She stared at its contents, trying to make sense of it. "A baseball game in three weeks," she said slowly, as if saying the words out loud would make more sense than just reading them. "Between the Tigers and the Cubs. You Kingstons sure know how to throw an original party. What's next - canoeing?"

"None of this was my idea," he said tiredly. "And as much as I'd like to go canoeing, I'm afraid the last event is a ball." He sounded like he'd just eaten a lemon. He stopped talking and pulled his collar away from his neck.

He froze when Meg absently grasped his wrist and held it loosely in her hand. "Stop doing that," she said, still reading the invitation. "You'll stretch out all your nice shirts."

"I'd tell you that you sound like my mother, but I never wanted to kiss her when she held my hand." His grin was wicked as he laced his fingers through hers.

Meg rolled her eyes but didn't pull away. "I'm sure she's very disappointed. All mothers love it when their sons kiss them."

"That's not what I – "

"I didn't know you were into baseball."

"Are you trying to change the subject?" Harvard chuckled. "Okay, I'll let you win this time. You can thank me for the festival, my dad for the baseball game, and my mom for the ball." He made another disgruntled face. "We should probably get going."

"Right." Meg was having a hard time concentrating on what he was saying. Maybe she should have thought twice before she grabbed his hand. "Let me get my lunch."

When they were on their way toward the food court, Harvard took her hand again, seemingly unaware of the stares and whispers that followed in their wake. He simply remained silent until they were past Charley's dress shop. He lifted his free hand like his was going to stick a finger in his collar again, his lunch bumping gently against his chest with a sound that suggested carrot sticks. Or maybe a chocolate bar.

"Harvard," Meg chided quietly. "Do you have a personal relationship with a tailor?"

"What?"

"You're maiming your very fine Oxford. Again."

Harvard's hand dropped back to his side. "I only do that when I'm nervous," he told her irritably. "It's all your fault if I spend all my money on new clothes."

"Why is that my fault? I'm just a shoe saleslady."

"It only that were true," Harvard muttered under his breath, "my life would be a lot easier." He cleared his throat – twice – and said, louder this time, "Will you come? To the game, with me?"

"As in, a date?"

Harvard unconsciously tightened his grip on Meg's hand. "Yes, exactly. A date."

Meg looked over at him in surprise. "Of course. Aren't we dating?"

He exhaled in relief and grinned down at her. "We are. I just didn't know if you were into baseball or not."

"Oh, I've seen a game or two," Meg said wryly. "Will I get to meet your dad? He's coming, isn't he?"

"Believe me, if you knew my father you wouldn't be asking that. He's been spouting about inter-league play for months. If the choice was to either come to the game or acquire the Mall of America, I can guarantee you he wouldn't be in Minnesota."

Meg laughed. "I can't wait."

They found a seat, and Harvard watched as Meg opened her water bottle. "That was quite the list Mamie gave you," he said. "How many of these things did you actually do?"

Meg flushed and emptied her bag out on the table. "Enough to keep her from selling to that nasty woman," she answered. "Is Charley going to give it back to me?"

He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "You didn't really expect him to, did you?" Before she could answer, someone called Harvard's name. He frowned when he spotted Charley waving frantically from across the crowded room.

"You can go if you need to," Meg told him, taking her bologna sandwich out of its bag. "I'll be just fine until you get back."

Harvard looked like he might argue, but he let out a heavy sigh when Charley called him again. "Don't go anywhere," he told her. "This is the best lunch I've had in weeks, and I don't want to miss any more of it than I have to."

She watched as he walked away, smiling to herself when he didn't seem to notice all the girls who were doing the same thing as she was.

He'd only been gone a few minutes when his lunch bag began to sing what sounded like, "Who Let the Dogs Out." She eyed it warily for a second before reaching in and pulling out a cell phone. She turned it over in her hand, wondering why Harvard had stashed his phone with his lunch, when the singing abruptly stopped. Meg stared at it, wide-eyed, before deciding the only decent thing to do would be to pretend to be his personal secretary and take a message, but when she raised it to her ear a woman was already talking. Or maybe it was scolding. It was hard to tell.

"Harvard? What are you doing? I've been trying to reach you all morning."

Meg blinked a few times. "Hello, this is Meg. I accidentally answered Harvard's phone. May I take a message?"

There was a long pause. "Meg? As in, Meg Bailey?"

"That's me," Meg replied slowly. "Do I know you?"

"Oh, Meg! This is Jillian, Harvard's mother. I've wanted to talk to you for simply ages."

Meg's brain stalled momentarily. Had she been worrying about meeting Harvard's mother subconsciously and was imagining this whole conversation? She hadn't been getting a lot of sleep lately . . .

"Meg? Are you still there?"

Meg jumped. Evidently she wasn't hallucinating. She couldn't decide if she was relieved or not. "Yeah, I'm still here," she said faintly.

"Oh, good. Is Harvard around?"

"No, he's actually talking to Charley. I can tell him you – "

"Oh, I'm so glad. Now we won't be interrupted. I have so many questions – tell me all about yourself!"

Meg swallowed convulsively and scanned the crowd for Harvard. His back was to her, and she sighed in resignation. "Well, I was born and raised in Michigan, and I work at a shop that sells high-end shoes."

Jillian made a noise that sounded like she was going into paroxysms of delight. "_Shoes_? Really? I'd marry you myself if I didn't think Harvard would hate me for eternity. Tell me more."

There wasn't a whole lot 'more' to tell, Meg thought in a panic. "My best friend, Charley, owns a dress shop next to mine. He and Harvard seem to have hit it off . . . "

Jillian made the same strangled noise again. "How serious are you two?"

"Me and Charley? Um, we're best friends – "

"No, I meant you and Harvard, of course. Has he started to hint about marriage yet?"

Marriage? Was she kidding? Meg buried her face in her free hand so the entire food court wouldn't see her flaming cheeks. "We've only been dating for three days," Meg said firmly in an attempt to kill this line of questioning. "It seems a little early for that, don't you think?"

'Of course not!" Jillian cried. "Joseph and I were married three months after we were formally introduced and look how happy we are!"

There didn't seem to be a good response to that, so Meg settled on, "That's lovely," and hoped Harvard would save her soon.

"How do you feel about children? Do you want a large family?"

"Children?" The hand that was holding her head up slipped, and she rested her head against the table. "Children?"

The next thing she knew the phone had been snatched away from her and an extremely irate Harvard was barking into it. "Mother! What do you think you're doing?" He listened impatiently for a few seconds and then said, "I don't care what you were trying to do!" Then he slammed the phone on the table so hard the battery cover flew off, skidded across the table and landed on the floor with a soft clatter.

He fell into the chair across from her and groaned. "I'm so sorry. Please tell me she didn't say anything embarrassing."

A sliver of hilarity tried to make its way up Meg's throat, but she held it off long enough to gasp, "She wanted to know if we'd talked about marriage yet" before erupting into full-scale, side-holding laughter.

Harvard watched her in silence for a minute before cracking a smile. "I'm glad you're taking this so well. Most girls would be running for the Canadian border by this point."

It took Meg another minute to calm down, and after she dried her tears with her napkin she grinned at Harvard and picked her sandwich off the table. "I can't say as I blame her," she said around a mouthful of mayonnaise and bologna. "If I had a son as good-looking as you are, I'd have started to plan his wedding the day he entered kindergarten. She was very funny," she added when Harvard just grinned stupidly at her.

"You would, huh?" He continued to grin even as he dumped the contents of his own bag on the table and looked at his lunch. It did, Meg noted, contain a Snickers bar. "I'm getting sick of peanut butter," he sighed. "Maybe I should start eating out again." His eyes flickered to the long line of food-court fare and his shoulders drooped. "Then again, maybe peanut butter isn't that bad."

Harvard's day had been . . . well, it'd been a little frustrating.

It all started when he called his lawyer friend to see what could be done for Meg's work situation, only to find out that Chad had gone on a very sudden vacation and wouldn't be back for several weeks.

He didn't even have the decency to go somewhere exotic. What was so exciting about Wilkes Barre, PA?

It didn't help that Chad was an old classmate from Princeton and should know better than to blow off friends who needed legal advice.

It was probably a girl.

That kind of ticked Harvard off.

And when he left for work later that morning he'd been so bothered by lawyers and their unwarranted vacation plans that he'd forgotten to pack anything to eat during his lunch date with Meg and had had to turn around. Chad should feel lucky, he thought, that he'd caught Whitney in the hallway and she'd told him Mamie would be out of town for the next two weeks.

After that he wasn't so irritated with lawyers.

At least, not as much.

Then he'd found the pile of ballgame invitations stacked neatly on his desk and had wanted to go back home and pretend it was Tuesday. He liked baseball as much as the next guy. What he couldn't envision was watching it with a bunch of women who'd pretend they didn't understand so he'd feel obligated to explain it to them.

Things had started to look up when Meg reached out and held his hand – twice – and he'd started to feel like the day wasn't going to be a total wash when Charley had called him over.

"I was kind of in the middle of something," Harvard hissed.

Charley smirked at him. "I didn't see anything going on, Mr. Tall, Dark and Stupid. What kind of fool tells a girl he's going to wait for her to – "

"Keep your nose out of my business,' Harvard snapped. "What happens between me and Meg – "

"You mean, what _doesn't_ happen between you and Meg – "

"Is none of your business," Harvard finished.

"I can always kiss Whitney when we're around you two," Charley offered. "That way Meg'll start to get ideas, and if you're lucky – "

"Was there a reason you called me over here, or did you interrupt my date just so you could mess with my brain?"

Charley's smirk grew even smirkier. "I wanted to let you know that I'm going to steal Meg all day on Friday," he said, "and I didn't want you to get all bent out of shape when you see the two of us wandering around the mall."

"The mall?"

Charley rolled his eyes. "Yes, Kingston, the mall. You happen to own several. It's the place you buy things that you think you need – clothes, shoes, perfume, fishing gear. I didn't want you to get the wrong idea."

"Fishing gear?" He didn't know Meg was into camping.

"Is something wrong with Meg?" Charley said suddenly, craning his head around Harvard's shoulder. "She looks like she's going to pass out any second."

Harvard swiveled around to see but couldn't figure out what was wrong. She was just talking on the phone . . . As he looked closer, though, he almost thought she was talking on _his_ phone, and he nearly lost his lunch (which, technically, he hadn't eaten yet) when she mouthed the word "marriage". He swore under his breath. "Please don't let that be my mother . . . "

He could imagine Charley snickering behind him as he dodged around the tables and screeched to a halt in front of Meg. By the time he got there, her head was on the table. "Children?" she asked in a muffled voice.

How Meg came to answer his phone was a mystery he didn't have time to figure out right then, but there was only one person who'd call and ask about marriage and children. He didn't even bother checking the display. "Mother!" he barked. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Oh, Harvard, she's just lovely. A little jumpy, perhaps, but that'll get better with time." She paused for a millisecond to listen to his mortified breathing. "Oh, don't be so angry, darling. I was just trying to get her to open up to me – "

Harvard knew it was the epitome of rudeness to hang up on his mother, but it was better than saying what he wanted to.

And Meg had called him good-looking. Surely that had to mean something.

Maybe the day wasn't a total wash, after all.

The first thing Meg heard Friday morning was a thud at her bedroom door, followed by a quiet word that would have made her mother gasp and cover her mouth, most likely in horrified amusement. Meg groaned and then did it again when she realized it was too late to pretend to be asleep.

"Meg!" Charley hissed. "I know you're awake. Get out of bed. We have work to do."

"For your information," Meg muttered, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes before peering nearsightedly at him, "today's my day off. I was planning on spending at least another hour in bed."

Charley sank down on the edge of her mattress. He looked uncommonly excited for that hour of the day. "Meggie," he said in a cajoling voice, "would I bother you if it weren't important?"

"Yes."

"How about life-or-death?"

Meg squinted at him. "You're not bleeding, and you're too chipper to have a ghastly disease. And anyway, if it were life or death, you'd have called."

Disgruntled, he sat back. "Would it help if I said I brought breakfast?"

Ten minutes later Meg was sitting at her kitchen table, cursing the day that Charley had discovered her unhealthy obsession with anything covered in cream cheese. "If you tell Harvard I love this stuff you're a dead man," she said around a mouthful of cinnamon roll. He already had ridiculous powers of persuasion; the last thing she needed was for him to discover her culinary kryptonite.

"Oh, he'll figure it out for himself. Now, here's the plan. We're going to the mall today, and I need you to make sure Whitney stays far away." He looked at her anxiously.

Meg put her roll down. "Are we doing something illegal?"

Charley let out a bark of laughter. "No. We're going shopping for – "

"Charley? Is that you?"

The color drained from Charley's face so fast Meg grabbed a hold of his arm to keep him upright. "In here, Whitney. I was just trying to convince Meg to help me out with a little project."

Whitney stuck her head around the doorjamb and smiled at him. "Oh, okay. But I need her for a project of my own next Friday, so you better get everything done today."

"What are we doing?" Meg asked, curious.

"We're going to Mamie's house to get the rest of my stuff. I love you, Charley, but I don't think I'm ready for you to rifle through my underwear drawer."

Charley grinned weakly at her, and when her steps retreated down the hallway he slumped forward onto the table. "That was a close one. Not that I wouldn't mind rifling through her underwear drawer . . ."

"I heard that, Charley!"

He jumped guiltily. When Meg snickered at him he grabbed her plate and shoved it in the dishwasher.

Highly amused by all this jumpy behavior, Meg didn't bother to lower her voice when she asked him, "What are we shopping for again?"

He glared at her and refused to say anything until they were safely in the mall's atrium. "We're shopping for rings, and if you tell her what you were doing today, so help me, Meg, I'll – "

"Rings?" Meg blinked at him for several long seconds. "As in, you're going to ask her to marry you?"

Charley gave her an exasperated look. "Why else would I be looking for a ring for Whitney?" he snapped, and then threw his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I'm a little nervous. I don't mean to take it out on you. Hey, what's wrong?"

Meg sniffed and wrapped her arm around his waist. "Nothing. I'm just happy for you," she said blurrily. "I can't believe you're going to get married."

Charley grinned. "She hasn't said yes yet." He didn't look too concerned. "Now, dry your eyes and help me find something Whitney won't be able to say no to."

Laughing, Meg let him lead her down the halls. "I hardly think that'll be a problem. I am a little surprised, though." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "You haven't been dating very long."

He just shrugged and kept walking. "No, we haven't. But I love her, she loves me, and I know I can't live without her. Why wait around?"

Thinking of Harvard, Meg smiled to herself. "I guess, if you put it that way . . . "

Charley's eyes danced with amusement. "She's my 'dweam wiffiin a dweam."

Meg laughed and elbowed him in the side. "All right, Westley. Let's look for Buttercup's ring."

Six hours later she wasn't feeling nearly as indulgent. She watched as he jotted down notes in a notepad he'd stowed in his pocket. By now it was covered in small drawings and gem terminology. "Were you planning on buying a ring today, or is this a fact-finding mission only?"

"Buy a ring? In the mall? Are you kidding me? That's the tackiest thing I could possibly do."

"People buy engagement rings all the time at the mall."

Charley looked mortally offended. "Not me. I'm designing it, and then I'll have Bea make it for me."

Bea. Meg had forgotten all about the Grimm's family jeweler – she'd been doing Charley's mother's pieces for years. Meg waved a hand at Charley and sank down on a bench in the hallway across from The Glass Slipper. "Go on," she sighed, leaning her head back against the wall. "I'll just sit here and wait."

He frowned at her, but when she folded her arms across her chest he walked away, muttering under his breath about diamond settings.

She sat there for a few minutes before she focused on her mother's window display. She hadn't looked at her slippers in a long time, and she smiled faintly. They really were quite astonishing – dainty and shimmery, with a heel so thin she could almost see through it. No wonder her mother had only worn them once.

"Penny for your thoughts."

Meg started and almost fell to the ground when Harvard whispered in her ear. He laughed and draped his arm across the back of the bench, his fingers absently rubbing her shoulder through her sleeve. She leaned into him and shook her head. "I need to get you a louder pair of shoes," she mused. "It's not safe for you to go around sneaking up on people."

"Speaking of shoes," Harvard said. He was entirely too close to her, but Meg couldn't find it in herself to complain. "Have the ones I asked you to order for me come in yet?"

Meg frowned and glanced up at her shop. "They did," she told him slowly, "but they weren't the right size so I sent them back and ordered another pair. They should be here soon."

"Good." He took a deep breath. "I saw you shopping with Charley today."

She snorted, and he let out a surprised burst of laughter. "I'd hardly call it shopping. Whitney had better be happy with whatever he comes up with."

Harvard let out a long, low sigh and relaxed a little. "I'm sure she'll like whatever he finds. What are you doing next Friday? Can we hang out? All day?"

Meg was about to tell him she already had plans with Whitney when Lexie came out of the shop. She bounced across the hall and beamed at them. "Meg! Hi! I hope you don't mind that I'm helping my mom out today. She seems to think it'd be good experience for when I get out into the real world." Lexie rolled her eyes in an exaggerated fashion. "Like I don't already live in the real world. Do you think I could get paid in shoes instead of money? I saw this pair . . . Oh, hello, Mr. Harvard."

Harvard smiled at her. "Hello, Lexie. Did you ever get your parents to drop the Ivy League talk?"

She made a face. "Nope. It doesn't matter, though – I'm going to Michigan State no matter what they say. They have cuter boys there. Hey, Meg. Do you know anyone named Anna Nichole Smith? Aside from the dead one, I mean."

Harvard caught Meg's eye and they exchanged a knowing look. "Why do you ask?" Meg thought she already knew the answer, but coming from Lexie that statement could mean a whole lot of things.

"Some old guy called this morning looking for her. When I told him I didn't know what he was talking about he got all yappy and told me I needed to mind my manners." She looked at Meg defiantly. "I have plenty of manners. Just not for rude old men who ask dumb questions. Oh, wait. That wasn't a very nice thing to say, was it?"

Harvard's shoulders started to shake, but he didn't make any noise. Meg was mildly impressed. "Don't worry about it," she assured her. "Did he give you his name?"

Lexie's face cleared. "Oh, yeah. I wrote it down for you back in the shop. I don't know if he'll call back or not. If he does, you can tell him that I wasn't lying and he should really apologize. Just because I'm young doesn't mean I'm disrespectful."

Later that evening, when Whitney's bedroom light had clicked off, Meg stared at the sticky note Lexie had given her. _Harold called for Anna Nichole Smith. She was supposed to meet him this morning and didn't show. Harold was rude and wouldn't give me his number._ It wasn't much to go on, but how many Harolds could there be in assisted living centers in Brothers, Michigan?

The number was, sadly enough, rather high. By the time she got to the last number on her list she was beginning to regret telling Harvard that she could sleuth this one out on her own. "You're going to have to work on this complete independence thing you have going," Harvard told her as he reluctantly gave in. "A guy likes to help out sometimes, you know. Makes him feel all muscley and primeval."

If it wouldn't have inflated his ego, Meg would have told him he was plenty muscley for her. At least, she thought he was. It was hard to tell under all those button-downs.

Lucy, from the Warbling Bird Assisted Living Center (of Mr. Shumacher fame), was very happy to hear from her, but didn't know of any Harolds that had a girlfriend named Anna Nichole Smith. She got a good laugh out of it, though.

"What's up with you and all these whacked names?" Lucy gasped over the phone. "It's like your some sort of magnet for old men with girlfriends who have famous alter-egos."

Meg rubbed her temples and shrugged, even though she knew Lucy couldn't see her. "Beats me. I wouldn't bother with it, but after Mr. Shumacher I guess I kind of feel like I should figure out what's going on. And, well, they're calling my shop. All the time."

Lucy was quiet for a moment. "We have a lot of residents with friends in other centers. I could ask around for you if you'd like."

This made Meg brighten up a little. "You wouldn't mind?"

Lucy laughed. "Of course not. I love a good mystery story, even if it's about delusional old geezers with too much imagination! And besides," she added rather slyly, "I'm trying to give you a good impression of my work ethic. I think a part-time job in shoes might be right up my alley – especially if I get a discount!"

The rest of the week dragged on in a fit of bad weather, with little Harvard to brighten things up. Meg was glad when Friday rolled around again. It had rained every day, sending her splashing down the driveway in her red raincoat that didn't manage to keep her skirts dry. She had just plumped the cushions on the couch and pulled a book off the shelves Friday morning when Whitney called from her bedroom. "Are you about ready to go, Meg?"

She groaned and put the book back in its place. She'd completely forgotten that Whitney had asked her to help out at the Steppe house. "Give me just a second," she called back, and wondered if she should have had an extra helping of Wheaties.

Whitney was quiet in the car. Meg wasn't sure if this was because she was driving or because she was nervous about their errand. "Thanks for helping me today," Whitney finally said when they turned onto her old street. "I didn't really want to do this by myself. This house gives me the creeps."

"Didn't you grow up here?"

"Unfortunately."

Meg didn't understand this comment until they got inside, and she took an involuntary step backward.

"It's horrid, isn't it?"

Meg could only nod at Whitney in distraction. There was so much . . . stuff . . . laying around that her eyes had a hard time finding a spot to focus on first.

"Where did you get all this?" She reached out a hand to finger the statuettes lining a shelf next to the front door.

Whitney shrugged and made a face. "Beats me. It started showing up a little after my parents' divorce was final. Brittany and I learned not to ask too many questions when we were younger."

Meg followed her back through the house and up a flight of stairs to Whitney's old bedroom. It was the only place in the house that she felt like she was able to breathe without knocking something onto the floor. "I'm glad you came to live with me," she told Whitney, who blushed prettily. "And I'm glad you don't live like Mamie does. Now, let's unearth your stuff and get out of here. This house gives me the creeps."

"Told you." Whitney's smile was more of a grimace.

They worked in companionable silence until Meg found a battered box hidden in a corner. When she lifted the lid she found what appeared to be a family tree, filled out meticulously in childish cursive. "What's this?" she asked, picking it up and turning it over.

Whitney looked away from a stack of boots. "Oh, I forgot I still had that. When I was eight or nine I became fascinated with genealogy, and I started researching my mom's line as far back as I could. I didn't get very far before my dad found out and told me that he was very sorry, but there was no way I was adopted because he was in the delivery room when I was born and that while he understood my desire for more normal parents, I was who I was." She laughed and took the sheet of paper from Meg. "I was so sure he was wrong."

"Most eight-year-olds are sure about everything," Meg told her, rifling through the box. She found a packet of letters and some black-and-white photos printed on thick paper that were yellowing with age. "Who are these people?"

Whitney peered over her shoulder. "Relatives," she said before going back to her packing. "I think I wrote their names on the back."

All the women in the pictures looked sallow, even in their monochromatic tones, but one in particular grabbed Meg's attention. The picture was of a tall woman who looked like she'd been born old. Her mouth was pursed up, making Meg think she'd just eaten a lemon on purpose and had relished the sourness of it. The name on the back read Bertha.

The sound of Whitney dropping a shoe on the floor brought Meg back to her surroundings. She placed the picture underneath Whitney's family tree and got back to work.

When they left several hours later, Meg's car stuffed full of Whitney's worldly possessions, she made sure the box was packed safely in her back seat. After all, she didn't want to lose any of Whitney's background, she told herself, and tried to rid her mind of Bertha's scowl.

The day of the baseball game dawned bright, sunny, and hot.

Meg took her time getting dressed; it was a night game so she had all morning to lounge around and do nothing with Harvard.

At least, that was what she thought – until he came up the stairs with a hangdog expression.

"Hey, sunshine," she said with raised eyebrows, leading him to the couch in front of a fan. "Aren't you glad we've finally hit summer?"

He cracked a smile and sat down, pulling her down next to him. "I love the summer. I'm just trying to figure out who I can ask to pick my dad up from the airport."

"I thought he was going to take a cab."

"He was." Harvard rubbed his face with both of his hands. "But now he says he wants a more personal touch and since I'll be at the ballpark checking last minute details . . ."

"You can't do it." Meg sighed and rested her head on his arm. It felt good. "I can do it, if you trust me not to kill him on the way."

Harvard made a rude noise. "It's not you I'm worried about. It's him, telling you – " He stopped abruptly and flushed a bright red.

Meg sat up, took one look at him, and started to laugh. "Oo, I definitely have to get him now. Text him and tell him to look for the short blonde with a sign."

It took a bit of persuading, but he finally – reluctantly – agreed. "Don't believe a word he says," he told her as he left for his car an hour later. "Just keep him on the subject of sports. That's safe."

Meg shook her head and laughed. How bad could it be? She'd survived Jillian, after all.

Harvard had told her to pick Joseph up at the front of the terminal, but that seemed rather impersonal to Meg so she parked the car and waited by the front door. It didn't take long for a man with salt-and-pepper hair and Harvard's eyes to approach her. He wasn't as tall as Harvard, she noticed absently.

"Are you Harvey's Meg?"

Meg tried to stifle a grin. "Harvey, huh? I'll have to remember that."

Joseph looked down at her critically. "I expected you to be a little taller."

"I expected you to be less hairy," she shot back after a glance at his mustache.

The corners of his mouth twitched and Joseph held out his hand. "I hope it wasn't' a disappointment, Miss Bailey. I must compliment you on your baseball attire." He allowed the grin that was lurking behind his mustache to beam down at her. "Harvard's finally done us proud on the girl front. Now tell me everything about yourself that my wife hasn't already extracted out of you."

By the time they arrived at the game Meg had decided that if Harvard aged as well as his father, in both looks and personality, he could have done a lot worse. She also found out why Jillian's ringtone was "Who Let the Dogs Out." "You see, Miss Bailey," Joseph told her as they parked the car, "It really wasn't Harvard's fault. Jillian had heard that rabbits made wonderful pets but wanted to see for herself, so she snookered him into watching one of her friend's. When she opened the door to its pen the rabbit took one look at her and shot out of that thing like its tail was on fire. It took Harvard three hours to find that thing."

"Where was it?" Meg cocked an eye at him.

"In the back seat of her car. He was so mad. He looked and looked for a song about rabid rabbits, but had to settle for the dog one."

For some reason that didn't surprise Meg a whole lot. "Thank you for letting me collect you, sir," she told him warmly as they walked across the street. "It's been a real pleasure."

"It's all Jillian's doing," he confided in a whisper that really could have been a lot quieter. "She told me to give that line to Harvey so that he'd send you to get me. I'm supposed to give her a full report when I get home tomorrow."

Meg wasn't entirely sure what to make of this. "I didn't really tell her all that much," she said doubtfully. "She kind of scared me a little."

Joseph harrumphed. "Don't tell her I said this, but she scares me a little sometimes, too." He paused in front of the entrance gates. "I can't tell you how sorry I was about the loss of your mother. I was at the funeral, but I daresay you were more focused on other things to pay much attention to an old man."

Meg felt the backs of her eyes sting with tears, and she blinked furiously. "Thank you," she told him, and was surprised when he pulled her into a hug. "It means a lot that you were there."

Joseph cleared his throat and pulled away. "Come on, my dear. Let's go find my son. It's my bounden duty as a father to make him sweat a little."

Harvard was sweating – both literally and figuratively – by the time his father's plane was scheduled to land. What had he been thinking, sending Meg on her own?

When they finally arrived, he wasn't sure whether he should be grateful that she hadn't bolted for Canada or worried that his father looked very pleased with himself. He guessed the look was because Meg was wearing, of all things, a Cubs jersey.

"Hello, sir," Harvard said warily. "I trust you had a pleasant flight."

Joseph gave him a knowing look. "It was on time." He nudged Meg forward, and Harvard took an involuntary step towards her. "Thank you, Miss Bailey."

"I'll see you in a minute," Harvard murmured in her ear. She gave him a small smile at him and walked away, bringing her cell phone out of her pocket as she went.

"She's a good girl, Harvey."

He turned to his father in surprise. "Of course she is. She's perfect."

"How much money did I spend on your education again?"

"Too much." Harvard grinned in spite of himself. They'd had this discussion regularly ever since he'd been graduated from Princeton and his father had been forced to admit that his son might not have been a total idiot for declining Dartmouth. And Harvard, although that was a little harder for him to swallow.

"I may demand a refund when you buy your first property."

"Yes, sir." Harvard rolled his eyes.

"Don't roll your eyes at me, young man. And don't say that poor girl's perfect. No one should have to live up to that expectation."

Harvard felt his back stiffen. "I know that." He stared his father straight in the eye. "She's just perfect for me."

Joseph's expression softened noticeably. "In that case, we have some things to talk about, don't we? Maybe you should come home in the next week or so and we can discuss your options."

For the first time since he'd dropped his handkerchief in Meg's lap all those months ago at Barnes & Noble Harvard felt a frisson of hope sprinkle into his heart. "I'd like that, Dad. I really would." He paused and glanced up at the suite he'd reserved – mostly for those people he wanted to stay away from. "Did you know that Clyde was coming?"

"Clyde? As in, your cousin?"

"Twice removed," Harvard corrected him automatically. "And if he's my cousin, he's your nephew. How did he get a ticket? We haven't seen him since he lit Great-Aunt Virgie's wig on fire."

"It was a good thing that it wasn't on her head at the time."

Both of them shuddered at the thought of a bald Great-Aunt Virgie. "Your mother probably sent it. He's in the suite, isn't he." Joseph sighed in defeat at Harvard's nod. "Splendid. I knew this day was going too well."

Meg wasn't in her seat when Harvard left his father in his box. He sank into his chair and took a deep breath. Now that Meg had completely bewitched his father, maybe he had a chance to convince Joseph that he could stay in Michigan long term. Maybe he could stop travelling. And maybe, just maybe, he could persuade Meg that he was the real, end of the line deal.

"What's up, buttercup?" Meg asked cheerfully as she sat down beside him and tilted her face up to the sun. Her hands were loaded up with nachos and hot dogs. "It's a beautiful day to watch the Cubs."

"Yes, it is." Harvard watched her soak in the heat and snagged a chip out of her basket, watching as her ponytail swung lazily around her shoulders. "Did my dad make you wear that jersey?"

She opened one eyes and aimed it pointedly at his stuffed mouth. "No, Moocher. This is mine. I love the Cubs. I was so excited when I saw they'd be in town for inter-league play." She shot a grin at him. "It seems your dad and I have something in common besides our mutual fascination with you."

"Oh, so you're fascinated with me, are you?"

"We're dating, aren't we?"

Harvard frowned a little. She kept using that phrase. He wondered why. "I certainly hope so."

Meg took a deep breath. "If you didn't fascinate me I'd have told you to get lost a long time ago, Harvey."

Harvard was just about to splutter at her use of his father's nickname when Brittany's high-pitched voice interrupted them. "There you are, Harvard! I've been looking all over for you!" She looked witheringly at Meg and then proceeded to ignore her completely.

"Brittany." Harvard took his time getting to his feet. "Did you take a wrong turn somewhere? I wasn't aware your seats were in this section."

Brittany made a pouting face. "I was looking for you," she said. Her bottom lip stuck out so far Harvard was sure she could hold an entire hot dog on it – relish and all. "But it's so boring up there in that suite with my mother. I need someone to help me understand what's going on out there."

Harvard knew this translated into, 'I hate being where no one can see me,' but wisely held his tongue. "I'm afraid there aren't any seats available down here with the rest of the store owners, but I'm sure – "

Someone made a honking noise behind them, and Brittany whirled around, her cheeks turning purple in annoyance. "Will you hold on just a second?" she shouted, making Meg blanch. "I'm kind of in the middle of something important!"

Harvard raised his eyes to the sky and counted to ten. What was Clyde doing down here? If his father had sent him down to get rid of him . . .

"I'm sorry, miss," Clyde said in his deep, mournful voice.

Brittany froze, her mouth drooping open slightly. "Have we met before?"

Clyde scratched at his receding hairline. "We were in the suite together," he told her. "If you need some assistance in understanding the game I'd be glad to help."

Both Brittany and Meg stared at Clyde. He wasn't much to look at, or at least, that was Harvard's take on the guy. He was all arms and legs and chin, which made his deep James Earl Jones voice seem very, very out of place. The way Brittany was looking at Clyde, though, made Harvard think that he was missing something extremely important.

"Say that again." He would have called it a demand, but Brittany's voice was too awestruck.

"I can explain baseball to you if you want."

Brittany let out a breathy giggle and waved her hand in front of her face. "Ooo, I just love a man who knows his sports. Let's go back upstairs and you can talk about anything you like."

The last he saw of them, Brittany had her hand clutched tightly around his skinny upper arm (he couldn't in good conscience call it a bicep) and was staring raptly into his face.

Harvard turned to Meg in baffled confusion. "What in the world just happened?"

Meg started laughing so hard tears came to her eyes. "Brittany has this thing with deep, manly voices," she gasped, and collapsed back into her seat. "She finds it terribly attractive."

"You're kidding."

"Did you just see the way she was looking at that poor man? I'm so not kidding. Who is he, by the way?"

"My cousin. Twice removed. He was a little . . . trying as a child."

Meg laughed even harder. "I bet he's not too trying for Brittany. She'll be stuck to him tighter than gum to the bottom of his shoe by the time the game's over."

"Somehow, I think she'll snap out of it when he starts talking about tax laws and stupid Michigan facts." He lowered his voice as far as he could and said in a doleful tone, "Did you know that it's illegal to chain your alligator to a fire hydrant in Michigan?"

Meg smirked at him knowingly. "She won't. He'll be stuck with her now, unless he's already got a girlfriend."

Harvard grimaced. "I don't think so." He eyed her appraisingly. "Was that a serious bet? Do you want to put something on it?"

Meg's eyes danced with humor. "Sure."

"All right," Harvard said, rubbing his hands together. "When I win, and she has to leave the park with him, I get a kiss. From you, and on the lips."

"Harvard." Meg stared at him beadily. "Are you sure you want to make that bet?"

She didn't know his cousin – twice removed – like he did. "I couldn't be surer."

She smiled then in a way that made Harvard feel a little less sure of himself. "You're on. But when I win, you have to mow the lawn at home for the next three weeks. Without complaining."

Harvard couldn't keep the grin off his face. He'd never been a gambler, but if this was what it felt like he could get used to it. Of course, not all bets involved kissing Meg . . . "No problem."

Four hours and a lot of internal swearing later, Harvard was feeling decidedly less optimistic about betting against Meg Bailey. "I'm never going to Las Vegas again," he muttered as they watched Brittany and Clyde leave arm in arm. She was still listening to him, spellbound. Harvard could have sworn he was talking to her about the stock market.

"Come on, Kingston. Admit it. I won the bet."

Harvard glared at the sidewalk in front of him before mumbling, "I'll be up to get the key to your shed in the morning."

Meg laughed and wrapped her hand around his. "Aw, come on. You know you don't mind."

And then she stood on her tiptoes, grabbed his face with her free hand, and kissed him, right there in the middle of the sidewalk in downtown Detroit.

Harvard made a surprised noise that lasted an entire eighth of a millisecond before kissing her back with everything he had in him. When she finally let him go (or, rather, he finally let her let him go) he was wearing the biggest, stupidest grin that had ever graced the face of a man in love.

"Was that so bad?" he asked her a little breathlessly.

She laughed a little. "What would you do if I told you it was?"

"Then I guess I'd have to keep doing it until you changed your mind. Practice makes perfect and all."

Meg looked up at him through her eyelashes. "Well, then, what are you waiting for?"

"I hope you realize I'm going to do this all the time now."

That was the last coherent thought Harvard could remember until his father found him by the side of the ballpark, staring at the garage that Meg had disappeared into some time later.

It wasn't until he was at home brushing his teeth that he realized he could have picked a better place to share his first kiss with Meg, but his mind had been a little short circuited and had bounded off into a world where the only things holding him down to the ground were Meg's lips, so it was hardly his fault.

It may not have been the most romantic spot.

But it was the most perfect.

**Author's Note**: I'd think of something semi-witty to explain my long absence, but it's too late and I've already made you wait long enough. Only three more chapters left; be sure to tell me what you think!


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

"It's time for our annual State of the Shop talk. Can you do it tomorrow morning?"

Meg shoved away the shoe box with a frown before looking up at Charley. What was it with this company? She'd ordered Harvard's shoes twice now, and they still weren't right. "Same time, same place?"

Grinning at her, he winked. "You got it."

She sighed, thinking wistfully of the bed she knew she'd miss in the morning. "Okay. I'll bring the cinnamon rolls this time."

"It's a deal. Oh, and Meg?"

"Yeah?"

"No complaining this year." When she rolled her eyes he laughed and shook his head. "You know you're going to. See you tomorrow."

Meg rubbed her eyes. Six months after Charley had opened his dress store he'd decided he needed to be accountable to someone else besides his accountant, and had convinced Meg that they should compare financial notes once a year. It had been surprisingly beneficial.

The only problem was . . . Mamie'd taken over the checkbook a while back, and Meg hadn't seen it since. She wasn't sure she wanted to.

The next morning Meg sleepwalked through the front gate of The Glass Slipper and staggered down the hallway toward the atrium without really seeing where she was going. Charley caught her elbow and steered her around a tree. "Maybe we should do this in January," he mumbled sleepily. 'Sunrise isn't until a normal hour in the winter."

Meg just glanced at her watch and groaned. It wasn't even six o'clock yet.

Charley's jaws popped as he yawned. "Come on, Meggie. Don't be such a wimp. And besides, you know the view's worth it."

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered. "And you were just being a wimp, so don't yak at me, Mr. 'Maybe-we-should-do-this-in-January'."

When they reached the middle of the atrium Charley sat on the floor, tugging her down with him. "Hand over the goods, woman. I need sugar."

They munched in companionable silence for a few minutes before Meg looked up at the glass ceiling above them. "It's about time," she reminded him quietly. "Shall we?"

Charley grinned around a mouthful of cinnamon and sugar and they lay down on the cold floor, staring up expectantly.

The sky grew gradually lighter and lighter. "Here it comes," Charley breathed, and then the sun's early morning rays were turning the glass and the steel beams that formed the atrium roof a brilliant, vibrant gold.

Meg breathed in deeply. "Remind me next year not to complain."

Charley chuckled quietly. "I remind you every year."

They watched as the sun slowly lit up the rest of the dome, and Charley wiped the crumbs off his chin before speaking. "Shall we get started?"

Closing her eyes, Meg grimaced. "Sure. How've things been at Charley's this past year?"

She turned her head to watch as a slow smile spread across his face. "Much better than I'd anticipated. I think I can hire another part timer."

"That's great!" Meg grinned at him. "And you were worried that fancy dresses –"

"Gowns, Meg. How many times do I have to remind you?"

"_Gowns_ wouldn't be a hot seller. I guess it just takes the right man to sell them."

"Darn right it does." He paused and propped himself up on one elbow. "Dare I ask about The Glass Slipper?"

Meg closed her eyes and shook her head in despair. "I found Mamie's records last night while I was cleaning up – "

"You weren't trying to finish off any of the things on that stupid list, were you?"

She rolled her eyes in momentary exasperation. "I was sweeping the back room and found the register stuck under a pair of snow boots."

Charley waited for her to continue, and when she didn't he grasped her hand. "And?"

It took a second for her to answer. "I don't know how we paid the rent this month, and unless something happens soon we aren't going to make next month's either."

They were quiet for a long moment. "I thought you were doing well," Charley said blandly. "Isn't the men's line drumming up any additional business?"

"It is, which is why I can't figure out why we're short on cash. I still have all Mom's old customers, and enough new ones to make us firmly in the black, but . . . " Her voice trailed off. "I thought I was looking at the wrong accounts, but I checked our balance when I did the deposit last night."

"You don't suppose Mamie's using money you earn at The Glass Slipper to fund her new stores, do you?"

"It's possible . . . but I don't think it'd be enough to buy as many as she has."

Charley stared up at the sky and rubbed his chin. "Do you need some help?"

Meg snorted. "Not unless you're offering to help me bump her off and throw her body in Lake Huron."

"Lake Huron's a ways away, Meg."

"It's only an hour. Or two," she amended when he raised his eyebrows at her. "Let me talk to Mamie first. Maybe if we get the shop looking like it used to, without all the neon colors and loud music . . . "

Charley opened his mouth to argue but snapped it shut. "All right. But if that doesn't work, will you please consider working for me? I'm serious, Meg."

"I know you are." She took a deep breath. "And I'll think about it. Seriously," she added when he raised his eyebrows at her.

He stared at her, hard, for a second before nodding. "Now, tell me why you walked into your house Friday night like you were floating on a cloud. Has Mr. Tall, Dark and Lovesick finally shown you some of his magic?"

Meg's cheeks warmed instantly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I do."

The next thing Meg knew she was being hauled unceremoniously to her feet and Harvard was gazing down at her. "You mean this, Grimm?" he said smirkily just before he kissed her so thoroughly she had to hold onto his arms to keep from sliding back down to the floor.

Charley let out a loud whistle. "Calm down there, man. You're the wrong species to start eating people."

Meg hid her face in Harvard's shirt, sure her face was going to burst into flames. "Shut up, Charley."

"Yeah, shut up, Charley." Harvard sounded positively smug. "Why're you two laying on the floor this early in the morning?"

Shrugging, Charley stood up and brushed off his pants. "Admiring the view. You should try it sometime. I'll warn you, though. Meg gets downright testy if she has to get out of bed too early." He narrowed his eyes. "Speaking of early, what are you doing here?"

Harvard glanced around the atrium distractedly. It was as if he were doing internal measurements. "A little remodeling."

"What – "

Before Charley could get the rest of his sentence out a man with a scowl and a hard hat strode into the atrium. "So this is it?" he asked Harvard, and when Harvard nodded the man's scowl deepened and he walked to the edge of the fountain, muttering to himself about water and marble.

When Harvard turned around two sets of curious eyes were staring at him. He sighed heavily and handed Charley a large square envelope. "The remodeling is due to this." He watched as Charley slid his finger through the slot and pulled out a thick piece of paper covered in silver, fancy lettering.

"A ball?" Charley looked flummoxed for half a heartbeat and then grinned hugely. "You're like my own personal marketing department. I can just see it now – three weeks of women buying everything I can get my hands on."

"A ball?" Meg tilted her head back and met Harvard's wide eyes. "Is this your mom's doing?"

"You remembered." Harvard's kiss was gentler this time, but it still made Meg's head spin. "I only have two tickets per shop owner, but I was hoping you'd accept one from me, to come as my date."

Images of a tuxedo-clad Harvard filled Meg's head, and she couldn't keep the dreamy expression off her face. "I'd love to come. Can you dance?"

Harvard shuddered. "Will you still be my date if I tell you no?"

"Of course."

He smirked down at her. "That's good to know."

Meg waited for Mamie all day.

And all the next two after that.

By Wednesday she was ready to redo, again, the shop – only this time without permission. She'd gotten as far as taking Brittany's music out of the stereo and was staring at the display table just inside the store when Mamie finally waltzed through it. She didn't look pleased.

"Meg Bailey!" she snapped. "Have you seen my daughter?"

"She's out back."

"Not Whitney. Brittany. I've been calling her all day and she hasn't answered her phone. Where is she?"

Assuming this was a rhetorical question Meg went back to contemplating the table. It was cluttered with gaudy shoes that no one had touched, much less tried on, in several months. She jumped when Mamie materialized uncomfortably close to her. "I asked you a question, Meg Bailey. Where is Brittany? She needs to start getting ready for the ball before all the good dresses are gone."

Meg blinked at her a few times, making Mamie scowl. "Well?"

"I have no idea," Meg stuttered. "The last time I saw her was at the baseball game."

Mamie let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl, and Meg took an involuntary step back, knocking a particularly loud, red and white stiletto to the ground. Ignoring this, Mamie paced around the room, muttering to herself.

Meg took a deep breath. It was now or never. "Mamie, have you looked over the financial accounts recently?"

Mamie kicked a shoe box, making its contents slither across the floor. "Not recently, no."

"We're not doing as well as we were this time last year."

Meg watched warily as Mamie's movements stilled momentarily. "It you're trying to say something, Meg Bailey, just say it."

"We need to make some changes if we want to have enough money to pay the rent next month."

The store was completely still for a small eternity. Even the music had paused. "And whose fault is that, exactly, Meg Bailey?"

Yours, Meg said silently, but wisely kept her counsel.

"Things weren't as good when I arrived as you think." Mamie stood in the middle of the room, her hands fisted at her side. "Inventory was high, sales low. The only people that came in here were biddies too old to know better. And now look at us!" She waved a hand expansively at the over-stuffed shelves. "We have a whole new customer base that can't wait for us to open the gate every day."

"And yet we still can't pay the rent." Meg's voice was quiet but firm. "Something needs to happen."

The smile that crawled onto Mamie's face made the hairs on the back of Meg's neck stand straight up. "I wouldn't worry about that if I were you," Mamie practically purred. "After all, I'm the one in charge of this shop. For the time being, you're to leave things as they are. This ball business will boost sales."

Meg felt her shoulders slump. "May I at least put on some different music?"

Mamie sniffed and turned on her heel. "If you must. Tell Brittany that she needs to come home right away if you see her."

Meg wasn't sure if she should be grateful she got one concession out of Mamie or depressed that it wasn't going to be enough. "Okay."

"Oh, and Meg Bailey?"

"Yeah?"

Mamie paused, one hand resting on the window display. Her eyes flashed at the informal response. "See that the old sign gets replaced with the new one I ordered last week. I can be reasonable. Like you said, we're trying to change things around here."

Then, in a flurry of spiky heels and sickening perfume, Mamie was gone.

Meg stared at the display she'd backed into for a long, long time. Then she carted armfuls of shoes back into the storage room and cleared away everything that made her think of Mamie Steppe.

And then she took a deep breath, dusted off the now-cleared table, and got to work making her own display – one that would match the one her mother had made in the window almost a year and a half before. She kept an eye on the slippers her grandfather had commissioned for her grandmother, hoping that a smidgeon of their magic would help her resurrect her mother's legacy.

Friday morning Meg decided she'd had enough financial stress for one week and vowed to spend the entire day doing absolutely nothing involving money. After all, fancy shoes were expensive, and there'd been a lot of customers hungry for her wares this week. Sure, they were all mall employees, but still. It had to count for something, right?

Harvard was frowning when he slouched down onto the couch next to her. "Hey," he said, sounding tired.

Meg was prepared to say something snarky about the fact that he'd walked in without knocking, but when she looked at him again he seemed so exhausted that she didn't have the heart. "What's wrong?" she asked instead, pulling his head down to rest on her shoulder. It was to his credit that he didn't complain about getting a crick in his neck.

He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. "There's just a lot to do before I can leave next week, that's all."

Meg ran her fingers through his hair, and he let out what sounded like a purr. It took her a second for her to register what he'd said.

"Where're you going?"

"Chicago. For a board meeting."

"Must be some board meeting."

He snorted. "You could say that."

Meg lapsed into silence, watching as the strands of his hair separated with her stroking and then fell back together. "When're you leaving?"

"Next Thursday. I get back a week later, just in time to take you to the ball."

Meg lifted her eyes to the ceiling. "Don't sound so excited, Mr. Kingston, or I'll stand you up. I'm sure plenty of girls'll be going by themselves and would be willing to act as your date."

He turned his face so he could see her. "Are you threatening me with a gaggle of unattached women? It won't work. I'm not afraid."

"You should be." She grinned at him. "Are you doing anything else while you're back home?"

"Home?" He blinked at her in confusion. "Oh, you mean Chicago. I just need to get a few things from my old apartment, including – " he grimaced – "my tuxedo."

"You own your own tux?"

"Does that surprise you? I'm sure Charley has three or four hanging in his closet."

That was truer than he knew, Meg thought. "More like five or six. You've obviously never been inside his closet."

Harvard shuddered. "I'd like to keep it that way, thanks." His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he groaned after he'd fished it out and checked the screen. "Once this blasted ball business is done I'm going to lock myself downstairs and refuse to answer the phone."

"That's too bad. I was thinking about calling you to see if you wanted me to make you dinner as a thank-you for all the dancing you'll be doing."

His eyes widened and then narrowed. "Are you calling my bluff, Miss Bailey?"

"I might be. Is it working?"

"It most definitely is." His eyes locked on hers and he was halfway to her lips when the door clattered open, making him groan and lean back.

"Hey, Meg!" Whitney called down the hallway.

"Hey, Whitney." Meg patted Harvard on the knee in mock sympathy. "What're you doing today?"

Whitney's head popped around the doorframe. "Shopping at Charley's for a dress to wear to the ball. Have you chosen one yet?"

"I hadn't even thought about it."

Harvard glanced at her quizzically. "I thought all girls went a little crazy about stuff like that."

"I've been a little busy," she said tartly, poking him in the side. "And knowing Charley he's had a gown picked out since he heard about the ball."

"That's an understatement." Whitney squeaked and jumped when Charley's arms wound around her middle. "I've had it ready since the first day I opened my doors. Come on over tomorrow so I'll have time to make any alterations. You already have the perfect pair of shoes."

"I think the correct term would be slippers, Charley." She watched as he made a face and mouthed 'touché' at her. "And how do you know I already have the right ones? Have you secretly been taking inventory at my shop?"

Charley's eyes twinkled in an 'I-know-something-you-don't-and-I'm-not-going-to-tell-you way. "I just know."

Meg stared at him suspiciously before shaking her head and turning to Whitney. "I'll order yours after you've chosen your dress if you want."

Whitney's cheeks colored with pleasure. "Thanks. Are you ordering Charley's, too?"

"Yes."

"No."

Meg and Charley glared across the room at each other. "No," Charley repeated. "You're not. I already have a pair."

"Meg snorted. "From college graduation. And my Mom picked those out for you, not me."

"Are you trying to one-up your own mother?" The look Charley gave her was slightly incredulous.

Meg just stared at him and crossed her arms over her chest. "It's either the dress or the shoes, Mr. Grimm. You decide."

It took a while for Charley to reply. "You drive a hard bargain, Miss Bailey. Fine. You win this round. But you have to wear what I choose, no arguing." He pulled Whitney toward the door. "Come on, Whitney. Let's go find some people who know how to be reasonable."

Harvard eyed Meg cautiously once the door had slammed shut behind the others. "Trouble in paradise?"

Meg slid down further into the couch and groaned. "Yes. I need a best friend, not a brother. The next time you see him, remind him of that point. And your shoes should be here by next Friday." Meg glared at Harvard, as if she were daring him to argue the point.

"Fine," he told her, holding his hands up in a placating gesture before they drifted down to his lap. "Why do I get the feeling I'm missing something? You know what happens when you withhold information from me, Meg."

"And what's that?"

"I worm around the mall, look for clues, and eventually get to the bottom of it anyway."

It wouldn't have been so infuriating if he weren't right. "Remember Mamie?" he reminded her gently.

"How could I forget?" She sighed and rubbed her face. "Charley's just . . . looking out for me, I guess. Mamie's not exactly the easiest of bosses."

Harvard looked like he might press further but chose not to. "I'm sorry I have to go away so close to the ball," he told her.

She shrugged and leaned against him. "It's okay. It's your job, after all."

When he left her apartment that evening Meg rested her head against the basement door and hoped she wouldn't miss him as much as she was imagining.

Harvard pushed the lawnmower back into the storage shed Thursday night and wiped his face off with the hem of his t-shirt. It was hot as Hades, even at nine in the evening, and sweat was dripping down his chest.

Meg and Whitney were sitting on their porch swing when he turned around, and he waved jauntily at them. "Just paying off my debt, ladies," he called as he made his way back to the house.

It didn't escape his notice that Meg was fanning herself furiously with a shoe catalogue. He was cocky enough to think that it wasn't all because of the weather, and he smirked to himself as he scrubbed his face again – before he was hidden from view.

Charley was in the kitchen when he got out of the shower. Harvard had asked him to come over, so this wasn't a surprise, but the fact that Charley was using his hand mixer was.

"What are you doing?"

"Making cookies. We're having a movie day tomorrow since it's supposed to rain all day."

Glancing outside, Harvard shook his head at the clear, starlit sky. "If you say so." He waited until Charley'd slid the first batch of cookies in the oven before he kicked out the chair across from him. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

Charley dusted his hands off on a towel and sat down. "I figured you invited me over for some reason. Ask away."

"How do you like working at the mall?"

"I like it just fine." He stared hard at Harvard and then started to laugh. "Are you finally getting around to my interview?"

"Yes," Harvard replied coolly.

"Took you long enough."

Harvard raised his eyebrows. "Would you believe me if I told you I saved the best for last?"

"I would if I didn't already know you interviewed Meg first."

"You have a point there," Harvard conceded. "Tell me about your shop."

"You want numbers?"

Harvard rolled his eyes. "No. The financial state of your business is just that – your business. I'm more interested in how you got started and why you chose my mall."

Charley leaned back in his seat, an amused expression on his face. "_Your_ mall, huh? Are you particularly attached to this one?"

"Just answer the question, Mr. Grimm."

Charley's mouth quirked up but he stared up at the ceiling for a minute before he answered. "It's really Meg's fault," he said eventually. "Before college, when she told me she was going to take over The Glass Slipper when her mom retired, the idea of my own store just kind of popped into my brain. I knew that we'd be a force to be reckoned with if we ever joined forces, Meg and I, and I had this thing about fashion . . . "

"_Had_ a thing for fashion?"

"Shut up, Kingston."

Harvard picked up a spoon he'd forgotten to put in the dishwasher and polished it absently on the hem of his shirt. "So why ball gowns?"

Charley grinned. "I get to see women come in my shop dressed in the drudgery of everyday life and walk out feeling beautiful. And most of them are. What's not to like?"

He had a point there, Harvard thought. "Have you ever thought about doing something else?"

"No." Charley's answer was quick and confident. "Well . . . let me rephrase that. I've thought for a long time that Meg and I should take down the wall between our stores so they'd be connected. I was going to ask her, but then her mom died, and . . . " He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Mamie'd never agree. She has the business sense of a marshmallow."

"A Jet-Puffed one," Harvard muttered, and he shook his head to clear the image from his brain. "Do you have any regrets?"

Charley opened his mouth but didn't say anything. When he finally did his voice was wistful. "My dad's never been thrilled by the idea of me selling gowns," he said slowly, "and even though he was completely supportive when I opened the store, and still is, I could tell he was wishing I'd done something different. You know, something I could put our family name on, like my own law practice or bakery. He's never said anything," he added when Harvard's eyebrows rose again, this time in surprise. "He just always envisioned me doing something else, that's all."

"Why didn't you name the store Grimm's, then?"

Charley snorted and then laughed. "Can you imagine buying a gown from a place called Grimm's? It sounds like a place where you'd be buying clothes you'd be buried in."

Harvard smiled slightly and then leaned his elbows onto the table. The spoon clattered unnoticed to the floor. "I have a proposition for you," he said, looking Charley straight in the eye. "My purpose in coming to Michigan four months ago . . . "

The next morning Harvard stood next to his car and waved to Meg, who was nowhere in sight. He knew she was up there, though – after all, he'd just finished giving her a proper farewell kiss, and he'd made it one she wouldn't forget in the seven days he'd be gone. He grinned as he drove down the road. He could already tell it was going to be a splendid day. He was in love, getting rid of his rental car for good, and he had a Plan Of Attack for the board meeting Monday morning.

What more could a man want?

"What do you think of this one?"

Whitney twirled around in the center of the family room and faced Meg. "I kind of like the other one better," she said, glancing down at her poufy skirt. "I feel like I should be in a Disney movie with this one."

"It is rather poufy," Meg agreed, munching on a chocolate chip cookie.

"Can I come out now?" Charley hollered from inside Meg's room.

"No," they both yelled back.

Indistinct muttering came from the closed door, and Meg grinned. "This is fun," she said loud enough for Charley to hear. "You look so hot in that. Charley's going to eat his cummerbund when he sees you."

There was a loud thud, and Whitney winced. "Should I go see if he's all right?" she asked worriedly.

"Nah, he's fine. He just has this thing against cummerbunds. He probably crashed against the door and is curled up in a little ball on the floor, clutching his tuxedo vest to his chest like a security blanket."

"I heard that!"

Whitney looked like she couldn't decide whether to laugh or not, so she just covered her mouth and fled to her own room to change. When she reemerged Meg let out a low whistle. "That's the one," she said, standing up and circling around her friend. "You're breathtaking. It makes you look like – like – well, just beautiful."

Whitney's cheeks reddened a few shades and she smoothed down her skirts. "You really think so?"

"I know so. Now go change before Charley gnaws down my door.

As soon as Whitney was safely out of sight Meg let Charley out. His eyes were a little wild as he followed her down the hall. "You weren't serious about the cummerbund thing, were you?"

"Since when have I had any control over your wardrobe?"

That seemed to sober him up a little. "Never."

"There you go."

They sat on the couch for a minute, listening to the rain beat against the window. "Why'd you even suggest that puffball dress?" Meg asked. "You had to know it was horrid."

"I don't sell horrid." Harvard looked like he was going to argue, but sank back instead, deflated. "I was just giving her options, that's all."

"You mean you wanted to make sure she wore the gown you chose so you gave her a terrible alternative."

"You can't prove that in a court of law."

Meg shoved him lightly. "Jerk. You know she wouldn't question your judgment."

"I know that, and you know that, but I want her to know she always has a choice."

Meg leaned over and kissed his cheek. "You're a good man, Charley. Whitney's a lucky girl."

He pretended to inspect his fingernails. "That she is." He cleared his throat but didn't look up, and when he spoke his voice was deceptively casual. "Have you figured out which shoes you're going to wear with your gown?"

Meg sighed and curled her feet underneath her. "No, Mr. Cryptic. I haven't."

"Would you like to hear my opinion?"

"I don't know," she replied tartly. "It hardly seems fair, since I can't tell you what to wear."

"I'm not telling, Meg, I'm suggesting. I was thinking this would be a great time to wear The Slippers."

Meg didn't have to ask him which ones he meant. In her shop, there was only one pair that deserved capitals – even in speech.

"No. I'm saving those for my wedding day."

Charley ran a finger over his chin thoughtfully. "This could be almost as important, don't you think?"

"As my wedding? You can't be serious."

"I'm very serious."

Charley looked at her steadily, and she could feel her resolve slip a little – but only a little. "No," she said with finality. "And I don't care that they're the perfect shade for my dre - gown."

"They couldn't be more perfect. The way the material of that gown changes color in the light, from gray to silver to light purple . . . " His eyes got a familiar, far-away look. "The shoes do the same thing, you know. I've studied them."

Charley shrugged when she didn't say anything and stood up as Whitney entered the room. "I'm just saying, Meg. Your gown and those slippers are meant to be together. Kind of like me and Whitney. Or like you and Harvard. Just think about it, okay?"

Meg's eyes wandered to the picture of her mother resting on the bookshelf. "I'll think about it."

"Oh, and Meg?"

"Yeah?"

"Your new table display puts your mother's to shame. You should be proud of yourself."

The table display had been getting a lot of attention, and a fair number of dancing slippers had been sold after women had seen the small figure resembling the fairy godmother from "The Slipper and the Rose", complete with magic wand, producing a pair of exquisite shoes on the table in front of her. "Thanks."

"All it needs is a stunning ball gown thrown over her shoulder to pair it up with . . . " Charley ducked, just barely missing the pillow Meg threw at him. She laughed as she shook her finger in his direction.

A few hours later she was starting to feel like an unwanted chaperone, so when her cell phone rang she pounced on it like it was going to save her. "Hello?"

She felt slightly deflated when a cheerful woman's voice spoke. "Hi, is this Meg Bailey?"

"Yeah, this is Meg."

"This is Lucy. I hope I'm not calling at a bad time."

Lucy! She'd been wondering – at least, she had before Harvard had told her he was leaving for a week – if she'd found any information on the mysterious Harold who'd called the shop while she was shopping with Charley. "Not at all," she said, wandering into the kitchen. "What's up?"

"I think I've found your Harold. His last name's Tooey, and his nurse said he's been yammering on about his girlfriend, Anna Nichole Smith, so I figured it's probably the same guy."

"You're a genius." Meg grinned and grabbed a pencil. "Do you have the address?"

Lucy hesitated before her words came rushing out. "Yeah, but I was kind of hoping I could come with you. It's my day off, and it's raining, and I have experience with older people, and I really love a good mystery, and – "

Meg laughed. "You can come," she said, feeling slightly more optimistic than she had since Harvard's car had pulled out of the driveway that morning. "Give me directions and I'll come pick you up."

Half an hour later Meg and Lucy were zipping down the road. Lucy was talking almost as fast as the windshield wipers were flashing across the glass. " . . . and then he threw his teeth at poor Mrs. Margory and told her he didn't want to be married to her anymore!"

"Let me guess," Meg said as she swerved around a car double-parked in front of the police station. "They're not married anyway."

Lucy giggled and shook her head. "Take a right at the light and it should be just up the road."

The assisted living center they walked into was nicer than Meg had expected. "When I'm old and senile," she whispered to Lucy, "I think I want to live here."

Grinning, Lucy steered her down a hall. "You and me both. This is one of the nicest facilities in mid-Michigan. I've been trying to get hired on here for months." She knocked on a door and a voice called out, "Come on in."

A young woman with a long black ponytail stood as they entered the small office, and she hugged Lucy with obvious affection. "Hey, Sonya," Lucy said. "Thanks for your help this morning. This is Meg, the girl I was telling you about."

Sonya was about to extend her hand to Meg when a short man with merry, bright eyes popped his head into the room. "Sonya," he murmured apologetically. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but Mrs. Campbell is trying to move out."

"Again?" Sonya sighed and shook her head before scribbling a number on a piece of paper. "Here's Harold's room number. I'll be by when I can." Then she strode out of the room, muttering something that sounded like "the third time this month" under her breath.

Meg blinked at Lucy a few times, trying to figure out what was going on.

A throat cleared behind them and Meg's eyes flew to the door. "And I," the man said, "am Johnny Evers. It's a pleasure to meet such lovely young ladies."

Meg watched in amusement as Johnny grasped Lucy's hand and brought it to his lips. Lucy giggled and blushed. "You must be the resident charmer," she said. "Sonya tells me half the women here are in love with you."

"It doesn't hurt that I have a very healthy bank account." Johnny's eyes twinkled and the lines around them deepened as he laughed.

"I'm sure they love you for your charming personality. I'm Lucy, by the way, and this is Meg."

Johnny shook Meg's hand and smiled at her. "I'm so glad to make your acquaintance. Who are you here to see? Perhaps I can be of assistance."

A few minutes later Lucy and Meg were walking beside him through the halls. Most of the people they passed waved, and a few even blew kisses in Johnny's direction. "You're very popular," Meg noted.

He shrugged in a self-deprecating way. "Most of the people here are just lonely, and I'm able to get around and make friends."

"How'd you end up here, anyway?" Lucy asked.

"My children took away my keys after I had an incident with the curb and the bottom of my car. I could have just gone out and purchased another one, but I don't see very well at night anymore and didn't want to do anything rash "

"Were you hurt?"

Johnny laughed. "Just my pride. There were times where I'd roll up on the curb on purpose when I was younger, just to be a nuisance, but never by accident. I love to drive, though. If I could get my hands on a good set of wheels just one more time . . . " Johnny shook his head and smiled ruefully. "Anyway. I learned not too long after my wife passed away that I can't cook, so I checked myself in and haven't looked back."

"I'm glad it didn't take you burning down the house to make that decision," Meg told him.

"You and me both. The only thing I haven't been able to do since I've been here is convince the shuttle driver that I can take her bus for a spin, but I'm wearing her down." He stopped in front of a door and winked. "Good luck with Harold. He's been a little grumpy lately." He knocked once and pushed it open with a flourish.

The first thing Meg saw when she stared into the dim room was the useful end of a cane, and she stumbled back into Lucy to get out of its range. "Hello, Mr. Tooey," Lucy said, a bright smile plastered on her face. "My name's Lucy. We spoke this morning."

The end of the cane slowly lowered to the ground, and the man behind it glowered at Johnny. "Figures that you'd be here. You won't be able to steal my women," he said before turning around and moving toward the window. "Get out of here, Johnny Evers. You don't even deserve the name."

After Johnny made his escape, Lucy started talking about random things, and Harold slowly began to lose a little of his bristle. Meg, meanwhile, wandered around the room. "You don't have any pictures in here," she said when Lucy had stopped to take a much needed breath. "Do you have any kids?"

Harold scowled at her. "Do you always ask rude questions?"

"You don't have to answer."

"Then why'd you ask in the first place?"

"Because I wanted to know. I'm going to ask another one, so prepare yourself." She stared at Harold, daring him to . . . well, she didn't know what exactly she was daring him to do. Hopefully not hit her in the shins with his cane.

A strange sort of respect glimmered in Harold's beady eyes. "I might not tell you anything."

"That's your prerogative. Why'd you call The Glass Slipper?"

That made Harold narrow his eyes at her. "Do you work there?"

"Yes."

He grunted and made his way toward the television, poking his cane at the buttons to turn it on. The sound blared out of it, making Meg wince, but Harold just squirmed into an over-stuffed chair.

"Then you know Anna." His voice grew distant. "A wonderful woman, that Anna. I wish she didn't always have to leave when she comes to see me."

"What's she look like?" Lucy's voice was over-eager, but Harold didn't seem to notice.

"She's a looker, that's for sure. And tall, too. Just the right height for me to see what she has to offer."

Meg winced. "How did you find out that she works at The Glass Slipper?"

"She told me. Showed me the sandals she'd just bought there. Red, with high heels. Kind of made my blood pressure rise a little."

Red and white high-heeled shoes . . . Meg knew those were a dime a dozen, but she could have sworn she'd seen a pair not too long ago. Meg came out of her shoe-induced trance when Harold banged his cane on the floor.

"Hey! You! Are you spacing out on me? And they say I'm the one with the senility problem," he muttered to Lucy, who tried not to laugh.

"Do you remember anything in particular about those shoes, Mr. Tooey?"

He glared at her suspiciously. "They were red. Bright red, with heels that were about this long." He spread his hands out about two feet and cackled when he saw the look on Meg's face. "Well, it seemed like it. And they had a shiny thing on the side."

"What color hair does Anna have, Harold?" Lucy leaned over to turn the volume down on the television, but scurried away when Harold raised his cane threateningly.

"Since when are we on a first-name basis? Her hair's red, just the way I like it. Although I think it might be colored; sometimes I see some blonde underneath. Now, my show's about to come on, so skedaddle." He looked at the door pointedly, and then turned his back on them with a huff.

Lucy looked at Meg and raised her eyebrows, but all Meg could do in response was shrug. "Thanks for your help."

He didn't even glance up at them. "Tell Anna that I said . . . " He paused before smirking to himself. "Tell her that I appreciated her visit a few days ago and I'll be more prepared next time."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Cackling, he started switching channels with his cane. "You're too young to hear that, missy. And for your information," he added, turning to Meg suddenly, "I don't have any kids. Never wanted one. They're all cheeky, disrespectful little whippersnappers who don't know their place."

That sounded like what he'd told Lexie when he'd called the shop. "I'll try to keep that in mind before I decide to sustain the population," Meg said drily. "Can we get you the remote before we go?"

He didn't even glance at them. "Remote controls are for sissies."

Johnny was waiting for them in the hall. He looked faintly apologetic. "How was he?"

Lucy lifted a shoulder and took a notebook out of her purse. "I've seen worse. He really seems to think he has a girlfriend named Anna Nichole Smith who works at your shop, Meg. Are you sure you don't have any new hires?"

"We can't even afford the people we have."

Johnny cleared his throat again. "Are you looking for the woman that's been visiting Harold?"

Meg met Lucy's eyes for a second. "Yeah, we are. Have you even spoken to her?"

Johnny's forehead creased. "No, I haven't, and that's odd because I usually meet everyone who comes in here. Of course, Harold's convinced that I'm a girlfriend stealer, so I suppose I can't really blame him."

"How do you know he has a lady friend, then?"

"Harold likes to talk. Or rather, boast."

That seemed to fit his personality. "I bet he does a lot of that."

Johnny didn't laugh. Instead, frowned thoughtfully as they made their way back to the front of the building. As Lucy was saying her goodbyes to a tired-looking Sonya, he turned to Meg with a serious expression. "I'm sorry if this is presumptuous, but it appears that you have a conundrum on your hands."

"I do, actually, and very little time for solving it."

"Did you know I used to be a detective?"

"You were?"

"Yes. Would you mind if I nosed around for you? I could try to talk to this girlfriend of Harold's, get some information."

Meg threw her arms around Johnny and. "That'd be great," she said after she pulled away.

"Let me give you my cell phone number." Johnny was beaming so wide she was sure his cheeks were going to ache in the morning.

"You have a cell phone?"

"I like to keep up with new technology. Makes me feel younger than I am. I can even text," he stage whispered.

Meg programmed his number into her phone and thanked him again. She was grinning as they got in the car.

Meg called Harvard Monday night and he whooped in her ear before she'd even had a chance to say hello.

"You're in a good mood," she laughed, and then jerked the phone away when he did it again. "Did you win the lottery?"

Harvard didn't answer for a minute. It sounded like he was trying to take deep breaths so he'd calm down. "No, but it sure feels like it."

"I take it the board meeting went well?"

"Without a hitch."

"Are you going to share what happened now or am I going to have to torture it out of you when you get back?"

The pause this time felt different. "Torture sounds very . . . intriguing."

Meg rolled her eyes and thought about wrapping a rubber band around the kitchen sprayer in his apartment. "I'll see what I can do. Watch your step when you open your front door."

"I'm not worried."

"You should be."

Harvard made a strange noise that resembled a cross between a laugh and a pterodactyl. "How've things been going back home? Have you heard anything from Johnny?"

Meg fingered the notes she'd taken during her conversations with Johnny over the past few days and sighed. "Yeah. Evidently Anna was there today, and Johnny talked to her a little. As soon as she found out he had three kids she turned up her nose and pretended he didn't exist."

"I take it the guy she's currently enamored with – "

"Harold."

" – is childless?"

"Yup. He hates kids."

"Well, I don't."

Meg had a sudden vision of Harvard surrounded by several small, well-named children. At least one of them was blonde. It made her forget what they'd been talking about before. "Is that so?"

"Well, it ultimately depends on their mother, of course. And how she feels about them."

Meg was glad he couldn't see how red her face was. "Anyway. I told Johnny about the other men who've called over the past few months, and he thinks there's a connection. So he's looking into it."

"I'll be interested to hear what he finds."

"You and me both," Meg muttered before moving the conversation along.

Thursday morning Charley was almost quivering with excitement when he hopped into Meg's car. "What are you doing in my car?" she yawned.

"Tagging a ride to work. Whitney's taking Tang," he explained when she looked at him strangely.

It was too early to try to decipher the brain of a man on a ball gown high, so Meg just nodded and backed out of the driveway. "You must be in love if you're letting your girlfriend drive your precious beast of a car."

"Tang isn't a beast. And I'd let you drive her if I thought you truly appreciated her character." His hands tapped on his legs the closer they got to the mall. "Charley!" Meg snapped after too many minutes of this.

"I'm anxious, that's all." When she didn't press for more information Charley became even more antsy. "Aren't you going to ask me what's so exciting?"

"Are you going to tell me?"

"I will tonight if you promise to meet me in the atrium after closing. And after Whitney's gone home for the night."

"All this twitching and you're not going to spill for the next twelve hours?"

"Nope. It's highly classified information."

Meg sighed to herself and parked the car behind her shop. "Okay, have it your way. Wait – isn't the atrium still blocked off? It has that little walkway down the center, but the rest of it's been walled up for the past three weeks."

"They're taking them down tonight to put in the last of the flooring before the ball tomorrow."

Meg would have asked him how he knew this, but decided it wasn't important. "Whatever you say."

There was a steady stream of customers that day, and she and Whitney were kept so busy handing out shoes that they'd had to special order for the ball that neither of them took a lunch break. Finally, somewhere between dinner and bedtime, Whitney collapsed behind the cash register and closed her eyes.

"I'm glad we can sleep in tomorrow. I'm not even going to set my alarm."

"That makes two of us." Meg flipped the 'closed' sign over and started putting shoes back on their display tables.

"Do you want me to close the gate?"

"No, that's okay. I'll do it in a minute. You can go, though, if you want. I still need to sort through the delivery that came in this evening."

Whitney looked at her suspiciously. "Are you hiding something from me, Meg?"

"Where would you get an idea like that?"

"Oh, I don't know. Charley's been acting strange all week, all jumpy one second and excitable the next. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Meg had never outwardly lied to Whitney before, but she thought about all those hours spent researching the perfect ring and didn't hesitate. "Not a clue. It must be the ball. He gets kind of fired up about stuff like that."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Whitney shook her head in amusement and grabbed the deposit bag. "I'll take care of this on my way home," she told Meg as she gathered her things. "I'll see you when you get there. Are you sure that box can't wait until Saturday?"

Meg shook her head. "I'm looking for Harvard's shoes. They haven't come in yet . . . "

"They could always be delivered tomorrow." Whitney didn't sound too hopeful.

"I'm really hoping they're in that box back there. Go on home and take a long bath. You look beat."

"Don't be too late. You have a big day tomorrow, too."

Meg smiled faintly. "I'll try to remember that."

It seemed to take a small eternity to empty the crate in the back room, and by the time she pulled the last box out of it she'd nearly given up – until she lifted the lid.

"Ah," she breathed out, and turned the shoes over in her hands.

Meg had ordered so many pairs – and varieties - of footwear over the years that there was no way she could remember them all, but every time she did she tried to do her best to make sure they were exactly what the customer wanted. But for some reason, this pair had been different, and she wasn't exactly sure why.

Maybe it was because they were for Harvard, she reasoned. And since you're in love with him, they mean more.

Or maybe, her subconscious said in a sly voice, you hope that tomorrow night will be the start of something new. Different, even. And you want everything to be perfect.

She slid them in a silver bag and walked into the mall. As soon as she passed her mother's display window she paused and pressed her hands to the glass.

The slippers seemed to beckon to her. She almost thought that if she could listen hard enough she could hear them calling to her. _Wear us_, they whispered. _We can help_.

Ever since Charley had hinted that she should wear them to the ball she'd been carrying the window key in her pocket, and she found herself fingering it absentmindedly. She'd almost pulled it out entirely when Charley called her name from down the hall. "Meg? Are you coming or has the shoe fairy got you trapped in a magic time warp?"

"Very funny," she told him as she wrenched her gaze away from the slippers. "And you're mixing metaphors."

"I try." Charley's smirk was ruined by the way he was bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Come on, slowpoke."

Meg let him drag her toward the atrium, pretending to resist. That is, until they turned around a wall that had been spared the workmen's hammers.

"Oh my," Meg whispered.

She stepped into the atrium, not really even sure it was an atrium anymore. The glass-encased elevator was still there, as was the fountain, but those were the only things that remained the same.

"Do you think that's really marble?"

Charley tapped his foot on it experimentally. "Sure looks like it."

The area seemed huge without the tables and patterned carpet, and as Meg walked into the center of it she turned in a circle to take everything in. "They even put in a stage," she said quietly to no one in particular.

"It's probably for a band."

Meg sat on the edge of the fountain and shook her head. "It's amazing. I don't have any other words."

If Meg had been paying attention to him, she would have noticed Charley playing with his shirtsleeves. But she wasn't, so when he blurted out, "This is where I'm going to ask Whitney to marry me tomorrow," she was taken a little off-guard.

"What?"

Charley huffed in annoyance at being made to repeat himself. "I said, this is where I'm going to ask Whitney to marry me."

"At the ball?"

He rolled his eyes at her. "Obviously. I picked up the ring this afternoon."

Meg wrapped an arm around his middle and squeezed. "Let me guess. It's burning a hole in your pocket."

"You got it."

"Whitney's a very lucky girl. I'm so happy for you. Where do you think you'll do it?"

Charley's jittery nerves reappeared at once. "That's a little sketchy right now. Do you think it'd be too cheesy to pop the question while we're dancing?"

It might have been terribly cheesy if it hadn't have been Charley Grimm. "I'd say no, but you can really only do the swing. That doesn't seem like a very proposal sort of thing."

Charley scowled at her. "I can do other stuff."

"No, you can't. I remember very well those dance lessons our mothers made us take, you know. You were a great swing dancer. You stunk at everything else."

Charley's scowl deepened. "I did not. I just need a little practice, that's all."

Meg sighed in an overly dramatic fashion and got to her feet. "What exactly do you want me to do?"

"The waltz. Isn't it the easiest?"

Before she could respond Charley was on his feet and bounding toward the stage, where a small boom box had been left behind. He stuck a disc in it and ran back to pull her to the center of the room. "How'd you know – "

"I just did, Meggie. Besides, I always have waltz music lying around." He smirked down at her and held out his arms. "Now shut up and remind me how to be suave and debonair on the dance floor."

She tried, she really did, but halfway through the first song she shook her head and stopped moving. "I think we're making poor Strauss roll over in his grave."

"I'm not that bad."

Meg felt a hand on her shoulder that didn't belong to Charley and she started.

"Yes, you are," a deep voice said. "May I cut in?"

Harvard gently twirled Meg around so she was facing him. He looked down at her, a strange expression on his face. "Let me show you how it's done, Grimm."

Charley scurried out of the way as Harvard held out his right hand. "Shall we?"

"I thought you couldn't dance." The waltzing and the surprise of being in Harvard's arms made Meg's voice sound breathless, and she couldn't take her eyes off of his.

He gave her a slight smile as the music restarted. "You'll have to judge for yourself." Then he moved forward, and Meg forgot how to think.

It seemed to Meg that they danced and twirled around the atrium for hours, but when they finally stopped she was no longer breathless. "Hi," Harvard said quietly, and bent to kiss her.

She gazed up at him when he pulled away and blinked a few times. "You should give lessons. Why'd you tell me you couldn't dance?"

"I didn't tell you that. I only asked you if you'd still go to the ball with me if I couldn't."

Meg opened her mouth to argue but couldn't find it in herself. "I'm glad you're back. I wasn't expecting to see you until tomorrow."

Shrugging, Harvard turned and grabbed the cd player. At some point, Charley had disappeared – probably to figure out a Plan B for his proposal. "I went home, but Whitney said you were still at the mall. So I came to find you." He grinned wickedly. "You're lucky I'm not a jealous man, Meg."

"It was just Charley."

"That's what I keep telling myself. I may not let any other man have one of your dances tomorrow night."

"Not even your father?"

Harvard scrunched up his face. "I might have to make an exception in his case. After all, he went along with my plan."

Meg picked up the bag she'd dropped it. "This is yours. They came in this evening."

Harvard glanced inside, a satisfied look in his eyes. "Excellent." After he'd switched off the lights they made their way back toward The Glass Slipper together.

"So are you going to tell me what your big meeting was about?"

Harvard glanced at her sidelong. "I promised I wouldn't tell anyone until tomorrow."

"Okay."

"That's it? Just 'okay'? You're not going to pester me for information?"

Shrugging, Meg pulled the shop's gate down and locked it. "I trust you. If you have to wait, you have to wait. I'm not going anywhere."

Harvard dropped the bag and kissed her senseless. "I've wanted to do that for seven days," he gasped when they'd broken apart.

"Then why didn't you do it back at the atrium?"

"I wanted to wow you with my dancing prowess."

"Well, it worked."

Harvard looked extraordinarily pleased but tried, unsuccessfully, to appear nonchalant. "Do you need anything before we go? I think Charley took your car – he grabbed your keys before he left the atrium."

Meg was impressed that he'd been able to pay attention to something other than his feet. Glancing around the shop, her eyes fell on the window display – and she hesitated. The slippers were almost glowing in the near-darkness, and for the first time she knew that Charley had been right all along. "Let me grab my slippers," she told him, and unlocked the case.

After almost a year and a half Meg had expected that she'd have to wipe at least a thin layer of dust off of them, but they were surprisingly clean. Even the air in the small space smelled fresh, almost flowery. "Did you put an air freshener in here?" Harvard asked, coming closer to sniff.

"No. Will you grab those shoes off the table and put them in here?"

"Sure."

Meg reached out and pulled the slippers from their stand. They were supple in her hands, and she turned them over and over, marveling at how light they were.

"What's that?" Harvard pointed to the stand inside the display. To Meg's surprise there was a small piece of paper, folded in half.

"It must have been under the slippers," she said, and grabbed it.

Harvard wordlessly locked the window for her as she shook it out gently with one hand. There was a picture on one side, with her mother's neat handwriting underneath.

Meg squinted at the face of a bitter-looking woman staring defiantly back at her. She was standing under an awning. Meg could just make out a pair of shoes with an almost translucent heel in the glass behind her. It reminded her of the slipper she currently held in her hand. The woman looked strangely familiar, which didn't make any sense since the photo had obviously been taken a long, long time ago.

"Who is it?"

"I don't know," Meg answered slowly, and read the caption aloud.

_It's always good to remember where you started_, her mother had written. _If it weren't for Bertha Frome we would never be where we are today._

All at once Meg was taken back to the day she'd helped Whitney grab her things from her former house. There'd been a box filled with Whitney's school papers and old family photos. And a family tree . . .

The picture fluttered to the ground, and if Harvard hadn't been standing so close to her Meg would have followed it. "Meg!" he cried. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"The woman," she managed. "In the picture. The one who wouldn't sell that pair of slippers to my grandfather and who then went out of business when my grandma opened her own shoe store. She was Mamie's mother."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

The next few minutes were a bit of a blur. Meg allowed Harvard to lead her outside and watched numbly as he locked up for the night. She finally spoke when he opened the door of a car she knew he hadn't been driving the week before.

"What happened to your rental?" she asked, sliding a hand over the glove compartment. The leather was soft against her fingertips.

"I turned it in." He gave her a sidelong glance. "Are you okay?"

No, Meg thought. She was not okay, but there was nothing anyone could do about it at the moment. "Not really. Where'd you get this one?"

"Chicago."

"Oh." Meg leaned forward until her forehead was resting on the dashboard. "I like it. It reminds me of Charley's old car."

"So he had good taste at some point."

"Hey." Meg turned her head slowly until she was looking at him. "He's about to marry my best friend."

Harvard seemed momentarily surprised, and then his eyebrows scrunched together. "I thought Charley was your best friend."

"A girl can have more than one, you know."

"How many do you have?"

"Well, there's Charley, obviously. And Whitney. She counts too."

"Any others?"

Meg's hand drifted over to where his rested on the gearshift. "Maybe one. Only him I can kiss."

Harvard's smile was small but satisfied. "Do you want to talk about what you learned at your shop?"

Her fingers clenching compulsively, Meg swallowed hard. "I don't know what to think. That stuff happened a long time ago, when my mom was just a baby. Mamie couldn't be that much older than she is. How could a person hold a grudge for that many years?"

"I thought we were talking about Mamie."

Meg's lips curved up in a wry smile. "Point taken. I think I need to talk to Whitney."

The lights in the upstairs apartment were all blazing when Harvard pulled into the driveway. "It looks like we're in luck."

Whitney and Charley were in the kitchen playing a card game when Harvard and Meg walked through the door. Charley glanced up and grimaced when he saw Harvard. "Way to show me up back there, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Twinkle-Toed. Is there anything you can't do?"

Harvard looked like he wanted to snap at Charley but Whitney cut him off. "What's wrong? Meg, you look like you've seen a ghost."

Meg tightened her hold on Harvard's fingers. "Did your mom ever talk about your grandmother?"

"Grandma Steppe? She couldn't stand her. Said she was too much like my dad."

"Not that one. Your mom's mom."

Whitney made a face. "Oh, Grandma Frome. Not in a while, but I haven't paid any attention to what's come out of Mamie's mouth since I was in middle school. Why?"

Meg slid into a chair across from her. "Did she ever tell you that Bertha owned a shoe store?"

"Not that again." Whitney rolled her eyes and slapped her cards down on the table. "That's the reason I tuned out in the first place. 'Some young upstart waltzed into Mama's store and demanded a pair of shoes . . . '" She shuddered.

Harvard sat down and pulled Meg next to him. "Can you tell us exactly what happened? We kind of need to know."

Whitney shot a questioning glance at Meg and shrugged. "It's not much of a story, to tell you the truth." She launched into a tale that was very similar to the one Meg had heard from her mother (albeit with a slight tone of contempt and entitlement), but toward the end there was one glaring difference. "Then the man stole the shoes and started his own business, putting Grandma Frome in financial ruin." Whitney moved her hand in a dismissive gesture. "She was probably on the way out anyway, so I'd take that with a salt lick."

Meg felt the blood drain from her face. If Mamie really believed that the original slippers had been stolen instead of duplicated, that made her actions a little more understandable. "Do you believe that story?" she asked in a voice that shook.

Whitney's eyes narrowed. "What's going on?"

Taking a deep breath, Meg pulled her slippers out of her bag and set them on the table. "My grandfather had these made for my grandma after he saw the ones in Bertha's shop. He married the young upstart."

Whitney stared at the slippers for a solid sixty seconds without saying anything. A myriad of emotions crossed her face before she got to her feet and almost ran out of the kitchen, leaving her stunned friends behind her. When she reappeared she was carrying the box Meg had lugged back from Mamie's house.

Three pairs of eyes watched as Whitney dug through it, her forehead crinkled in concentration. Then she smiled in satisfaction and placed an old photograph on the table.

Meg leaned forward to examine it. The only thing on it was a pair of shoes that was similar to hers, but not close enough for someone to call them the same pair.

"Yours have a thinner heel," Charley said, tapping the picture with one finger. "And the toe on these is wider. They look more like a French heel."

The fact that Charley knew what a French heel was didn't seem to faze Harvard in the least. He just tilted his chair back and rubbed his face with his hands. When he spoke his words sounded tired. "What we need to do is find the originals."

"Why?" Meg turned to him. It she weren't so exhausted herself she'd probably feel angry. "Why does it matter? Mamie still owns my shop. She still wants me to quit. And no matter how many pairs of shoes we find, she's not going to change her mind. Besides," she added with a glance at Whitney, "there's no way we can find them at her house."

"Meg's right." Whitney closed the box with finality and tacked the picture on the fridge. "You couldn't find a rhinoceros with a head cold in that house. And anyway, it's getting late. I don't know about you two, but Meg and I need our beauty sleep if we want to dazzle you at the ball."

Harvard's jaw tightened but he didn't argue. Instead, he stood up and tugged on Meg's hand. "We'll figure this out after everything's back to normal."

Once they were in the hall Harvard ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "My parents are arriving in the morning," he told her. "Do you want to meet them when they get here or at the ball?"

"The ball," Meg said immediately. "I'm sure your mom's a lovely person but she kind of freaked me out."

Harvard's smile was affectionately resigned. "She freaks me out too sometimes, and I lived with her for eighteen years. But in all seriousness, she's not as bad as she sounded on the phone. Her mental filter sort of disintegrates when she's excited."

That doesn't bode too well for tomorrow night, Meg thought. "I can't wait. What time do you have to be at the mall tomorrow evening?"

"Early, I'm afraid. One of these days I'm going to pick you up for a date in my own car." His voice grew distant. "Maybe I can do a vanishing act around six thirty . . . "

Meg laughed. What was it with men and their cars? "How about I just meet you? I don't mind. Really," she added when Harvard's lips pressed together in a disapproving line.

"All right." He sighed and tugged his collar away from his neck.

Meg reached up and pulled his hand away. "I thought you were going to spare your designer shirts," she reminded him softly.

The only thing Harvard could do in response was kiss her.

* * *

The day of the ball dawned clear, bright, and hot – which was a bit of a surprise for the Michigan natives. Meg had just made her bed when her cell phone rang.

"Are you showered yet?"

"Charley . . . "

"Meg, this is a big day. You'd better get going."

It was entirely too early to sigh this heavily, but she did it anyway. "I'll be ready on time," she told him with some exasperation. "Will you calm down? I don't think I could handle a repeat of our senior prom."

"I wasn't that bad." Meg made a rude noise and Charley laughed. "Just . . . remember to shave your legs. I'd hate you to snag your gown with a bristly calf." Then he hung up.

Meg was on her way out of her bedroom when the slippers caught her eye. She stopped and contemplated them for a long time. If Mamie really thought they'd been stolen it was a minor miracle that she'd left them in the display case without breaking the glass to get them out. Perhaps she'd been counting on the fact that Meg would honor her mother by keeping them there forever. Impulsively, Meg grabbed them and slid them under her bed. She knew she was being silly but something in the back of her mind told her to keep them out of sight.

The phone rang as Meg was putting her breakfast dishes back in the cupboard. "Hello?" she asked, trying not to drop her bowl in the sink.

"Miss Bailey? This is Johnny Evers. I hope I'm not calling at an inconvenient time."

Immediately perking up, Meg gave up on being domestic and leaned her hip against the counter. "Mr. Evers! I'm so happy to hear from you."

The smile In Johnny's voice was unmistakable. "I wouldn't mind a granddaughter or two like you." He paused, and Meg could hear papers rustling in the background. "I've been scouting around and I think I've found something interesting. It seems that our friend Anna has been making the rounds of the assisted living centers in the area."

Somehow this wasn't entirely surprising, and Meg told him that. "Where else has she been?" she asked, suddenly feeling bone weary.

Johnny rattled off the name of another property on the other end of town and Meg shook her head. "Is she trying to find a sugar daddy?" she asked, hoping that wasn't the case.

"It sure seems like it. If that's the case, she's definitely courting disaster with this man."

"What do you mean by that?"

Johnny paused. "Let me visit this other gentleman and get back to you. I have a hunch that Anna's slipped up, and this might be our chance to catch her at her game." The papers in the background shuffled again. "Do you know anyone who needs money?"

Meg thought about the people who worked, or pretended to work, at The Glass Slipper. "Not Whitney. And probably not Brittany, either," she mused, thinking of the way Brittany had gazed up at Clyde the day of the baseball game. Had Harvard said that Clyde was well-off? All she could remember about the man was his over-large chin. "Although, come to think of it, I haven't seen or heard from her in three weeks."

"Is there anyone else?"

"Mamie . . . but she didn't seem very concerned with the shop's financial situation . . . "

Johnny was quiet for a moment. "It would appear that those two are our best choices at the moment," he said finally. "Let me nose around a little. I'll be in touch with you as soon as I discover anything concrete."

"Thanks. You're such a sweetheart for doing this. I wish there was something I could do to repay you."

He chuckled. "Come visit me every so often once this is all sorted out. That's all I really need."

"Consider it done."

Meg hung up the phone feeling like she'd just gained another member of her family.

* * *

It was almost noon before Whitney emerged from her room. "Sleep well?" Meg asked from the couch.

"No." Whitney plopped down next to her. "I kept dreaming that a dancing pig was flying over the ball tonight and was throwing pork chops at people. It was horrid."

Meg tried not to laugh. "You're not nervous, are you?"

Whitney hesitated before answering. "Kind of. I mean, I've never been to something like this before. What if I trip and fall into the fountain?"

"Charley won't let you." Meg smiled to herself. Most likely, Charley wouldn't let Whitney more than a foot away from him this evening. "What're your plans for this afternoon?"

"Just to get ready. I told Charley I couldn't stand to wait around here until he came to pick me up so I'm getting ready over there." She shrugged at Meg's surprised expression. "He already has my dress. As soon as I eat lunch and take a shower I'm heading over there."

And that was how, an hour and a half later, Meg had the entire house to herself.

* * *

Contrary to what Charley thought, it would not take Meg an entire day, or even an afternoon, to get ready for a ball. She read a book, did a load of laundry (the sight of a dress shirt lying crumpled on the floor next to the dryer was enough to make her mind wander into a very nice fantasy about a tuxedo-clad Harvard standing in the middle of the atrium and, oddly enough, singing "Be Our Guest") and swept the kitchen floor after dinner before finally making her way to her bedroom. She took a long shower, even going so far as to shave her legs twice in deference to Charley's admonishment, and had just laid her dress on the bed when something crashed in the family room.

"Whitney?" she called, throwing her robe over her shoulders. "Are you okay?"

To her surprise it wasn't Whitney that she found in the family room.

It was Mamie.

She was pulling the cushions off the couch with single-minded determination. She didn't bother to look up when Meg gasped. "What are you doing here?"

Mamie just overturned an easy chair.

Meg darted in and grabbed a picture frame before Mamie could get her hands on it. "If you don't stop right now I'll call the police." She was going to do it anyway, but she had the feeling that Mamie'd do her bodily harm if she told her that.

Mamie dropped the lamp she was holding with a crash and glared at Meg. "Go ahead and call the cops, Meg Bailey. They'll just take you away first."

Meg narrowed her eyes. "What are you talking about?"

If looks could kill Meg would be nothing but a pile of dust and memories. "You're a thief. All these months I've allowed you to work for me, and how do you repay my kindness? By stealing my property. Give them back, Meg Bailey."

"Give what back?" Meg had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"My shoes. I want them back, and I want them back now. Hand them over."

As frightening as the situation was, it wouldn't be nearly as terrifying if Mamie's voice hadn't been so cool and detached. "I don't have your shoes."

Two bright red spots bloomed on Mamie's cheeks. "You're the only one with a key to that display window. What did you do with them? I'll search this place from top to bottom if I have to."

Meg grabbed the cordless phone and pushed a few buttons. It only took a second for someone to pick up. "Hello, this is Meg Bailey. I have an intruder in my home."

Mamie growled and bent down to pick up the forgotten lamp. As Meg rattled off her address she said a very unladylike word and threw the lamp as hard as she could at the wall. Then she kicked a side table and stalked down the hall, slamming the door behind her so sharply the glass rattled in its panes.

Meg slid to the floor where she was and listened as the operator assured her help was on its way. When she told the woman that Mamie had gone of her own accord, she was told to stay where she was. So she did, and thanked her lucky stars that Mamie hadn't seen the picture of the original slippers that was stuck to her fridge.

The officer that showed up was, ironically enough, the same one that had investigated her mother's murder. "Hello, Miss Bailey," Officer Jennings said with a weary smile. "I'm sorry we have to meet again like this. Are you all right?"

Meg nodded but remained seated on the floor. "I'm fine."

Officer Jennings crouched down next to her and gazed at her sympathetically. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

Before she knew what she was doing the entire story came spilling out of Meg's mouth, all year-and-a-half of it. By the time she was finished speaking her mouth was dry and she had tear tracks on her cheeks. Officer Jennings had quietly taken notes while her partner took fingerprints, even though Meg had told them who had broken into her apartment.

"It sounds like you've had a rough go of it since we spoke last," Officer Jennings said after a long pause. "How again did you say Ms. Steppe knew your mother?"

"She didn't, at least not as far as I know. But her mother knew my grandmother, and . . . "

"That's right; there was an issue with a pair of shoes. Would you mind showing them to me?"

Meg slowly got to her feet, studiously avoiding the mess littering her family room floor. "Sure. Hold on just a second. I stowed them under my bed."

"Wise move."

Once she was alone Meg closed her eyes and took several deep, lung-cleansing breaths. Not for the first time she wished that doing away with someone wasn't so against the law. Not that she was willing to kill Mamie, per se, but if she could just get rid of the woman her life would be a whole lot less complicated.

Officer Jennings took the slippers from Meg and studied them carefully, then handed them back with a wistful smile. "So this is what caused all the trouble," she remarked. "And, evidently, continues it on. Do you know where Ms. Steppe is now?"

"Not right now, but she'll be at the mall this evening."

"Is she going to the Kingston's ball? We know some of the security guys over there."

Meg was about to ask if they'd be helping their friends for the night when she glanced up at the clock over the mantel. "Crap, crap, crap," she moaned. "It can't be seven forty-five already."

"I take it you're attending the ball as well?"

"Yeah. I have to be there in fifteen minutes, and I haven't even – "

Sensing a panic attack, Officer Jennings' partner (who Meg was sure had a name but was too busy panicking to think of it) cleared his throat. "We'll let ourselves out, ma'am."

It felt like the faster Meg moved the longer it took her to do anything, and by the time she stepped into her dress she was almost crying with frustration. Calm down, she told herself sternly as she twisted her hair into a low knot. The ball won't disappear if you're a few minutes late. She tried not to think about Harvard's parents as it just made her feel queasy.

The slippers seemed to wink at her after she'd stepped into her drerss, and she smiled in spite of her nerves. What was it her mother had said? _"And now they're yours. Your grandmother wore them on her tenth wedding anniversary. I only wore them once, on the day I married your father. I expect you'll do something equally wonderful with them." _ Meg wasn't sure what exactly she was going to do while wearing one-of-a-kind dancing slippers, but Alice's words gave her the burst of courage she needed.

Her toes slid into them like they'd been made for each other, as clichéd as she knew that would sound if she said it out loud, and they curved with the arch of her foot so closely that it reminded her of the way she felt when she was dancing with Harvard. "Ah," she breathed out, and closed her eyes against the tears that were forming. "Mom, you were right."

If she hadn't known any better she would have sworn her mother was behind her.

She could have used her mother when, two minutes later, she discovered that both her car keys and her cell phone were missing.

* * *

"Have you decided what you're going to say?"

Joseph Kingston turned his attention away from the passing scenery and looked over at his son. Harvard kept his eyes on the road and shrugged. "More or less. There's not a whole lot to say."

"You mean besides the fairly large and life-changing announcement?"

Harvard's mind flitted to Meg. He wondered what her reaction would be. "Yeah, that one. Don't worry. I'll come up with something suitably grandiose."

Jillian leaned through the gap in the front seats and patted Harvard on the shoulder. "Leave your son alone," she chided Joseph. "He has a big evening ahead of him."

The breath Harvard let out could have inflated the Goodyear Blimp. "I think you're more excited than I am," he muttered under his breath. It wasn't, unfortunately, quiet enough to keep his mother from hearing.

Jillian beamed at him in the rearview mirror. "You know, when you first told me about Meg I had a really good feeling about her."

"You mean, when you extracted personal information out of me against my will -"

"And then I spoke with her, and she sounded even lovelier than I had thought - "

"Mom – "

"And now she has you excited to get all dressed up for a formal event." Jillian looked like she'd just won the lottery. "If you don't ask her to marry you, I will. I can be very persuasive."

"That she can," Joseph said, giving a loud harrumph for emphasis. "How do you think we ended up together?"

Harvard decided it was in his best interest to keep his mouth shut.

As soon as Harvard parked the car behind Charley's shop Jillian announced that she wanted to see Meg's store. "After all," she explained as Joseph helped her out, "I want to see what you'll be marrying into." He didn't miss the fact that her voice was high with excitement - the idea of meeting Meg combined with going shoe shopping seemed to have sent her into overdrive.

"Fine," he sighed. "Follow me."

But when they got to The Glass Slipper something seemed wrong. He listened to Jillian rhapsodize about some kind of shoe he'd never heard of before and looked around with narrowed eyes. "Lexie," he said to the girl staring in awe at his mother. "What happened to the display that was here last night?"

Lexie clasped her hands behind her back and transferred her gaze to him. "You don't want to know."

Oh, he most certainly did. He put on his best smile and tried again. "What happened to the display?"

"Oh . . . " Lexie seemed to forget what she was saying. "Um . . . that lady that Meg works for? You know, the tall one with the squicky voice? She came in a little while ago. She was nice enough at first, but when she saw the window she flipped out and started turning tables over." She made a face. "She might have hammered a hole in that that poor fairy godmother's head. With her heel. _On purpose_."

Harvard's eyes automatically went to the window display. It looked like the lock had been yanked around, leaving small dents in the molding around it. "What did she do then?"

Shrugging, Lexie swiped at a smudge on a table with her sleeve. "She said a bunch of words I'm not allowed to repeat and left." She paused mid-swipe and looked confused. "Do you know who Brittany is? She asked if I'd seen her. I tried to tell her about the Brittany at my school who's dating like three boys at the same time, but she didn't bother listening." A very small crease appeared between her eyebrows. "Two boys," she corrected herself. "I'm not supposed to exaggerate, either.

"Oh, and that geezer called again, only this time he asked for Betty Boop. I told him I didn't know any Betty Boop and he got all hissy on me and said he'd just come and find her himself if he had to. I told him to go right ahead." Lexie nodded to herself, obviously pleased with the way she'd handled the situation. "I think Miss Meg needs to get caller ID."

Harvard walked away from that conversation reeling from information overload.

The first thing Harvard did when he left The Glass Slipper was call Meg. And Charley. And then Whitney. After going straight to voice mail three times in a row he cursed under his breath and shoved his phone in his pocket.

Three seconds later he pulled it back out and called Meg's home number. When her answering machine picked up he sighed, but this time he left a message. "Meg, this is Harvard. Mamie knows the slippers are gone. Please call me as soon as you get this." When he ended the call his mother was in front of him.

"Is everything all right?"

"I don't think so." Shaking his head slightly, he held his arm out for her and pushed his panic back into the far recesses of his brain where he kept information like his middle school locker combination. "Would you like to see Charley's? I'm sure Meg told you about his gown shop when you talked."

If he hadn't been so worried about Meg he would have laughed at how easily his mother was distracted.

By the time the ball officially opened and there was no sign of Meg Harvard's panic had managed to filter back into the forefront of his consciousness. He stood with his parents and politely greeted their guests, but as the clock ticked on his smile grew more and more forced until Jillian elbowed him subtly in the side. "Why don't you see how the caterers are progressing?" she murmured during a lull in conversation. "You've already introduced us to the Grimms; I think we can take it from here."

Harvard nodded distractedly before turning away to hunt for Charley.

It didn't take long to find him – after all, he was in a top hat and tails. Harvard rolled his eyes as he tapped Charley on the shoulder. "Grimm," he said. "Where's Meg?"

Charley turned around with a surprised expression. "I thought she was with you." When he saw the look on Harvard's face he smiled apologetically at the gentleman he'd been speaking with and walked toward the stage. "You didn't pick her up, take her to dinner, do the whole romantic evening thing?"

"My parents are in town," Harvard replied stiffly.

Charley shook his head in disgust. "No wonder you've never had a steady girlfriend before."

"For your information, Grimm, I – "

Charley put his hand up to stop him. "Never mind. Her car was still in the driveway when Whitney and I passed the house a little while ago. She's probably on her way. Have you called her?"

Harvard closed his eyes and counted to ten. Then he did it again to get rid of the urge to knock the man's hat off his head. "Something's wrong," he stated quietly. "I can feel it."

For once Charley didn't have a snarky comeback. Instead, he gazed at Harvard in a calculating manner before nodding his head once. "Let's give her fifteen more minutes. Then we'll go to her house."

"That's the wisest thing I've ever heard you say."

Smirking, Charley tipped his hat in a mock salute.

Exactly fourteen minutes later Harvard spotted a sliver of blonde hair hovering at the edge of the atrium. "Finally," he muttered in relief, and kept his eyes on her as he made his way through the crowd.

Now, Harvard would be the first to admit that he knew nothing about female fashions. He might even add that he had no inclination of changing that fact. But when he saw Meg it took everything in him to keep his hand away from his collar, because it was suddenly very hard to inhale.

"Hello, Miss Bailey," he said quietly after he'd stood gawping at her for an embarrassing amount of time. He watched as she tilted her head up to see him. "You're looking mighty fine this evening."

Meg's eyes widened as they traveled from his hair to his toes, and he watched as she swallowed. Several strands of hair framed her face, threatening to hide her blush, but when she looked back at his face her eyes were warm and relieved.

"I could say the same for you, Mr. Kingston," she told him. "Your date is a very lucky girl."

"Not as lucky as yours." Then he took the last step toward her, grasped her hand, and kissed the living daylights out of her.

When he pulled away they were both breathless. "I'd say I was sorry," he informed her, "but I'm not. You really do look exquisite this evening. As much as it pains me to say this, I may just have to give my compliments to your modiste."

Meg smiled. "I'm sure he'd love that." She looked around nervously, making something in Harvard's chest tighten in apprehension. "Sorry I'm late. The police took longer than I thought."

* * *

Meg was sure there were smarter things she could have said at that moment, but seeing Harvard in a tux scrambled her brain. "Police?" he blurted out in horror, and then he abruptly pulled away from her. His eyes swept up and down her body as if he were looking for fang marks. "What happened?"

"Miss Bailey!"

Harvard looked like he might kill his father on the spot, but Meg ducked under his arm and smiled as brightly as she could manage. "Mr. Kingston, it's so good to see you again."

Joseph beamed at her and then motioned to the woman at his side. "This is my wife, Jillian. Jilly, this is Harvey's Meg."

Jillian held her hands out and grasped Meg's. "I've heard so much about you," she said. Her eyes twinkled. "I must say that Harvard hasn't done you justice. I love your shoes, by the way." The next thing Meg knew she was being folded into Jillian's arms. "I'm so pleased to meet you, dear," the older woman whispered. "I hardly recognize my son anymore. That's a good thing, by the way."

When Meg pulled back Jillian was glowing with what Meg could only call motherly rapture. "The two of you will make me such beautiful grandchildren," she sighed.

Harvard immediately grabbed Meg's hand and glared at his mother. "That's our cue to leave." He looked like he'd swallowed something prickly, and he kept rubbing his temple with his free hand as they walked away. "Please, just ignore her."

"I heard that!" Jillian called from behind them.

Meg stifled a laugh and almost melted into his side as he pulled her away from the noise of the ball. "Didn't' you get my message?" he asked in a controlled voice once they were alone. "Mamie tore apart your shop, and I tried to warn you – "

Meg rested her forehead on his chest. She wasn't terribly surprised. "I was a little preoccupied this evening." She breathed in the scent of his cologne mixed with the starch from his shirt. "Thanks for trying."

Harvard kissed the top of her head. "Are you going to tell me why the police were at your house?"

She tried to downplay the afternoon's events, she really tried, but by the time she'd reached the end of her story Harvard had pulled away from her. He looked positively livid. He said a few choice words under his breath and yanked at his collar viciously. When she reached up for his hand he grabbed her wrist. "Do you know where she is now?"

Why was everyone asking her this? Meg thought crossly. "No. She isn't here, is she?"

"I haven't seen her, but that doesn't mean anything." Harvard scanned the atrium and then abruptly stalked off toward Kyle. "I wonder if that rule about not hitting women is still in effect if the woman in question is a barracuda. Kyle," he snapped, "if Mamie Steppe arrives please advise me at once."

Startled, Kyle nodded and said something into his mouthpiece. Harvard clapped him on the shoulder before looking back at Meg. "Shall we dance?"

Dancing with Harvard while wearing a dress and high-heeled shoes was even more amazing than doing it with a skirt and ballet flats, Meg decided an hour later. The feel of his hand on her waist, how he smiled down at her when they completed a turn . . . a girl could get used to this.

But even dreamy, love-filled dancers need a break every now and then, which is how Meg found herself sitting on the fountain wall next to Charley while Harvard spoke to his father.

Charley tucked a strand of hair back where it belonged and stretched out his long legs. "Having fun?"

Meg sighed happily. "I am. When are you going to pop the question?"

"Next dance." He patted his pocket absently. "Provided she comes back in time, of course."

Meg looked around the atrium. "Where'd she go?"

"Phone call from her sister. She's a good egg, my Whitney. After all the trouble Brittany's put her through I'd send her straight to voicemail." Charley smirked. "I guess it's good I never had a sister."

"What do you think I am, a long-lost cousin?" Meg tried, and failed, to look affronted.

"Ah, Meggie, you're better than a sister. After all, I never had to share a bathroom with you." He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "Here she comes. Wish me luck."

Meg watched him stride through the crowd with purposeful steps. When Harvard came up behind her and put his arms around her waist she leaned back into him with a sigh. "Where'd Grimm go?" he murmured in her ear.

"To propose to Whitney. I hope he doesn't step on her feet in the middle of it."

Meg could feel Harvard's chest rumble as he chuckled. "Wanna watch?"

Three beats into the waltz the two of them were standing on the wall, scanning the crowd below them. "There they are," Meg whispered, pointing with her chin.

And then, right in the middle of the dance floor, Charley knelt on the ground. "Did he just flip his coattails out of the way?" Harvard asked.

"You're surprised?"

The next moment a misty-eyed Whitney had sunk down beside him, throwing her arms around him and burying her face in his neck. Harvard took Meg's hand in his as the spectators clapped (and, in the case of several women, cried) and he tilted her face up to his with one finger.

"Meg," he said, and she was startled by how serious his face was. "I – "

"Harvard! There you are!" Joseph smacked his son behind the knee, almost causing Harvard to lose his balance. "Come on, son. It's time."

Harvard sighed and squeezed Meg's fingers. "Don't move," he told her, and kissed her once, hard, before hopping back to the ground. "You're short, and I want to be able to see you from the stage."

He strode over to Charley and Whitney and said a few words into Charley's ear. Then the three of them followed the Kingstons onto the stage.

Harvard cleared his throat and looked at Meg briefly before speaking into a mircophone. "Thank you for coming this evening," he said, and waited for the chatter to die down. "And congratulations to Mr. Grimm and Miss Steppe. The two of you were meant for each other." There was a round of enthusiastic applause interspersed with a few catcalls that Charley graciously acknowledged.

: "While I have your attention," Harvard continued, "I'd like to take a few more minutes of your time to share something with you. I came to Michigan four months ago under the guise of remodeling the facility." Harvard waved his hands expansively at the atrium. "I'm afraid some of the latest changes are only temporary.

"My true mission began not long after I came, when I began to have lunch with a representative from each of your stores. I learned a lot about our mall's tenants when I saw who each shop's owner had sent to be my lunch partner every day." It was obvious that his smile didn't meet his eyes, even from where Meg was standing.

A low rumble of laughter swept through the room, along with more than a few guilty expressions. "These lunches served two purposes. One, I got to know you as people instead of names on a printout, and for that I'm very grateful. But the other, more important reason, was that I was conducting interviews.

"Mr. Yeats, our mall manager here in Brothers, has decided to retire. He requested this information to be kept quiet until we had found his replacement as he didn't want to deal with the storm of speculation he was sure this announcement would produce." Harvard grinned at a short, balding man at the edge of the crowd, who waved a hand victoriously in the air and smiled so hugely Meg thought his dentures would pop out.

"But it was harder than I'd expected to find just the right person for the job. I found a few that were promising – " Harvard briefly met Meg's eyes again across the dance floor, and she couldn't help but smile at him – "but there was always something holding me back. Until last week."

The smile on Meg's face disappeared. This was it, she thought. Harvard was going to announce that he'd found someone and that he was leaving on the next flight to Chicago. She tried to keep her face composed.

"Charley Grimm has all the qualifications I was looking for. He's a shrewd businessman, he loves this city, and he enjoys working at our mall. The only problem was that he didn't want the job.

"So we came up with a rather ingenuous solution. We are going to rename this property in Mr. Grimm's honor, and I will remain here as the new manager at his request."

Meg's head jerked up just as she felt herself falling off the ledge. It wasn't very high, and she landed on her bottom, which she supposed would have been a lucky move had someone not been able to wrench her slipper right off her foot as soon as she hit the floor.

"Finally!" an enraged Mamie hissed in her ear. "I knew you had them, you little thief. Give me the other one, _now_."

Meg stared up at her in shock. There Mamie stood, the slipper clenched in her sweaty hand, glaring malevolently back at her. She was dressed in a very elaborate, very shiny gown that looked to be three sizes too small. Meg found herself wondering in a detached sort of way how she'd managed to get into Brittany's gown without popping several seams.

"Give it to me!"

The rage in Mamie's voice jolted Meg back to the situation at hand, and she blinked in a mixture of confusion and shock. "Why do you care?" she asked quietly, trying to get to her feet without Mamie pushing her back down. "My grandmother was the one that opened The Glass Slipper, not me. And it wasn't like she set out to put your mom out of business."

Mamie growled low in her throat. "I. Want. That. Slipper." Her chest was heaving so hard Meg was afraid a rather important part of her dress would explode. "_Now_."

Meg scanned the crowd as she stood slowly. The only person who seemed to be paying her any attention was Kyle, who was standing at the edge of the stage. He took one look at Mamie and moved to Harvard's side, muttering something in his ear.

Meg wished she could just wait there for help, but Mamie grabbed her above the elbow, hard, and growled again. So Meg did the first thing she could think of. She lifted her foot and took off her other slipper, and then, before Mamie could reach out and grab it, she twisted out of Mamie's grasp, ducked around a group of people – and bolted.

* * *

In hindsight, Meg should have run toward Kyle instead of away from him. He was the head of security, after all; surely he could have done something useful.

But she didn't, and for once her 5'2" was an asset in a crowd rather than a liability. She dodged through the partiers, ignoring the gasps of surprise she left in her wake.

Mamie was nowhere to be seen when she escaped into the main section of the mall. Meg darted down the hallway until she was far enough away that no one from the ball could see her. She retreated into a darkened corner, leaned against the wall, and tried to calm her racing heart. It had been one heck of a day. And not all bad. After all, Harvard was staying. For good. In spite of the Mamie threat, Meg couldn't keep the silly grin from slipping onto her face.

The sound of music starting back up made her jolt away from the wall, and she inched her head around her corner. The light from the atrium filtered only so far into the heavy shadows, and she was well beyond that line. If Mamie'd followed her she'd have either caught her or passed her by now. She didn't dare go back to the ball in case Mamie was waiting for her, so the only thing she could think of to do was to go somewhere safe.

But when she got to The Glass Slipper she could feel her heart rate spike again. A light was on in the back room, and the gate was closed only halfway. Frowning, she stooped underneath. She'd only taken a few steps when she heard a loud, angry voice coming from the rear of her shop.

"We wouldn't be in this mess if you could drive!"

"It's not my fault we hit that orange car. You didn't see it there either."

"Well, now we're all in trouble."

The voices were familiar. They were querulous, old, and . . . "_Harold_? _Johnny_? Is that you?"

"Who wants to know?"

Harold's in rare form tonight, Meg thought as she closed her eyes and tried not to say what she wanted. "It's me, Meg. How'd you get here?"

The only response Meg got was a lot of banging. "It's a wonder you're still in business," Harold snapped as he came through the door, followed closely by Johnny. "Do you always keep shoe boxes on the floor, or is it just on special occasions?"

"I only leave a mess when I think you'll bless me with your presence. How'd you get here? And why are you here in the first place?"

Johnny cleared his throat. He shrugged before grinning hugely and holding out a key ring. "I may have sweet-talked the driver into letting me borrow these."

"And you decided to come here why?"

"Because of us." Johnny had a strange expression on his face as he hollered behind him, "Come on, slowpoke! We don't have another forty years to wait for you to get your rear in gear!"

Meg watched, baffled, as Harold Number Two shuffled through the door. He wore a scowl that matched Harold Number One's perfectly.

"Please tell me you didn't duplicate yourself."

The two men cackled. "I was born four and a half minutes before Roger Roger was," Harold informed her. "And I'm much handsomer, so you should have no problem telling us apart."

Roger whacked his brother on the back of the knee. "Stop it with the stupid _Star Wars_ references," he said crossly.

"How come you didn't tell me you had a brother, Harold? I asked about your family when I visited you, and you didn't say anything."

Harold scratched his face, making his wrinkles morph into strange, abstract shapes. "Roger and I haven't been on speaking terms in what, forty years?"

"Give or take a few." Roger didn't seem too bothered by this. "We don't even live at the same home."

"So why are you both here now?"

"Roger recently acquired a salty new girlfriend," Harold said sourly. "And he wanted to rub it my face that he had one and I didn't. Which I did," he snapped in Roger's direction, "and I saw her first."

"He's just angry because his girl isn't as spiffy as mine is. Betty's a real corker." Roger smiled beatifically.

"I already told you, dimwit. There is no Betty. We've both been played." Harold scowled and knocked several pairs of shoes onto the floor in annoyance. "I should have known when Anna came in wearing those blood-pressure-raising shoes that she couldn't be trusted."

Meg looked at Johnny for help. "What's going on?

Johnny eased himself into a cushioned chair and stuck his keys into his pocket. "It seems that our little Anna has been seeing men all over the Detroit area," he explained. "She gives herself a pseudonym, uses her charms to convince people like Harold and Roger, here, who are childless and rather – " he glanced between the brothers and cleared his throat – "advanced in age that they're in love with her. Then she gets them to sign over their money to her in their will. When they die, she inherits everything."

"That explains why she wasn't interested in you. You have kids."

"And I'm not close to dying." Johnny smiled faintly at the Tooey brothers' gasps of indignation.

"We're not nearly dead," Roger spluttered.

"And I'm not giving my money to anyone." Harold glared balefully at Meg. "So don't get any ideas."

Ignoring this, Meg gazed at Johnny. "How'd you figure all this out?"

"Anna, or whoever she is, made a mistake. She started seeing two men with the same last name. Then she wore the same red heels - and the same red wig – when she saw them both. Roger decided to rub it into Harold's face that he had a hot younger woman after him, and we started to connect the dots."

"Took him four decades to find a reason to gloat enough to contact me." Harold snapped his false teeth at his brother, who managed to look completely unruffled.

"You didn't call me, did you?"

Meg's eyes strayed to the display table Harold had just cleared. Red stilettos with a shiny accent on the side. Her mind flashed back to the catalogue she'd seen Brittany flipping through a month or so ago. She'd ordered a pair that sounded just like them, and when they'd come in she'd set them right . . . there. They hadn't been sold; she knew that for a fact, so they must have gone to . . .

Mamie.

"That's how she's been buying all those shoe stores," Meg said in disbelief.

"Who?" Johnny leaned forward, his hands planted firmly on his knees.

"Mamie Steppe. She owns this store and about four others in the mall. She's Anna, and Betty, and Marilyn Monroe, and – "

"Very clever, Meg Bailey. Very clever, indeed. I had no idea you were a junior detective."

It seemed like every hair on Meg's body stood at attention at the sound of Mamie's shrill voice. She was just outside the gate, the light from the back room glinting off her dress. It made her look like she'd been dropped in a vat of melted mirrors that flashed memories back at you - memories you didn't necessarily want to think about.

Meg almost stumbled back into the cash register at the amount of hatred and fury rolling off of Mamie. "Why?" she asked in a desperately soft voice. "Why did you have to own all those shoe stores? Wasn't this one enough for you?"

Mamie threw the gate all the way up into the ceiling with a massive heave and stalked into the store, ignoring the group of men who swiveled their heads back and forth between the two women like they were watching a table tennis match. "Once I collected your shop I needed leverage," Mamie said in a dismissive tone. "You weren't cooperating."

Some of the fear in Meg subsided, to be replaced with indignation. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her stomach as Mamie came closer. "I did everything you told me to do. _Everything_."

"Not true." Mamie's eyes shot daggers. "You never quit."

Meg was so mad she could hardly breathe. "Quit? This is my mother's shop. I'm not going to leave it, especially to someone like you." She paused, fighting to keep her voice sounding calm and reasonable. "You, of all people, should have realized that."

"That's going too far. You're too much alike, you Bailey women. Your mother's shop? She was just as stubborn and stupid as you are, but in the end I got what I wanted." She pointed at Meg with a long, fire-engine-red fingernail. "Unlike her."

Meg backed up slowly. Something in the pit of her stomach told her she didn't want to hear Mamie's next words. She shook her head wordlessly as she reached the hallway. "Mom had everything she wanted. She told me so herself the day she died."

"That, my sweet little imbecile, is where you're wrong. After all, she didn't want to die." Mamie's teeth glittered as she said the last word, following Meg out of the shop. "But I took care of that for her.

"Just like I'm going to take care of you." And then, as if by magic, she produced a small gun from somewhere in her dress and aimed it straight at Meg.

Meg's mind refused to acknowledge the gun for what it was, instead focusing on things that surely didn't matter at all – the slither of silk against her skin, the faint scent of flowers and fruit wafting from the candle store several doors down, the way the sign over her window sparkled faintly in the dark. She caught the look of determination on Johnny's face as he made his way toward them. Was this the last thing she'd remember? she wondered, and wished stupidly that Harvard were there.

"Have you used that before?" Johnny's calm voice drifted into her ears, tugging at her to come back to reality. "I'd hate for anyone to get hurt."

"Of course I've used this before." Mamie was breathing heavily, her face a hard mask of hate. "I used it on Alice Bailey a year and a half ago."

Meg almost dropped the slipper she still clutched in her hand. After all those months of waiting for this very news, she wasn't sure if she wanted to know anymore.

"Why would you do that?"

Meg had a sudden flash of respect for Johnny Evers. How did he manage to sound so soothing while talking to a crazed woman with a gun?

"I tried to be civilized," Mamie said, and the gun lowered fractionally. "I offered to buy the shop from her, more than once, but she refused. Said it was a legacy that she'd hand down to her daughter. What she forgot was that she ruined my legacy when she put us out of business."

Suddenly Meg found her voice. "My mom didn't put you out of business," she said quietly. "What happened was between my grandmother and Bertha. How could killing Alice possibly have given you back what was never yours in the first place?"

Mamie raised the gun back into position. "It gave me her store. I knew that sap she called her husband would sell to the first person who came knocking on his door once she was out of the way. So Mama's shop may not have been mine, but this one sure is now. And I'll pass it down to Brittany when I'm too rich to care about it anymore."

A sudden movement in the shadows flickered in Meg's peripheral vision, and then Whitney stepped into the circle of light. "I don't think Brittany'll want the store," she said steadily. "She called me a little while ago from Las Vegas. She eloped with Clyde this afternoon."

For just a second Mamie's face crumpled, and Meg could see the girl who must have hated hearing about the young upstart who'd stolen her future. She felt a flash of pity for that younger Mamie, but it vanished as quickly as Mamie's expression. "She's still getting it," Mamie snapped. "When the time comes she can do with it as she wishes." She looked down her nose at her younger daughter. "As for you, all I can say is that you're marrying above yourself. Good work."

Charley materialized out of the darkness and wrapped his arm around Whitney's waist. "I think you have that backwards," he said, and clasped Whitney tighter to his side. "I wouldn't expect an invitation to the wedding if I were you."

"Just so I have this straight," Johnny cut in, glancing at the gun briefly, "you lured elderly gentlemen into giving you their inheritance so you could purchase additional shoe stores after you killed Miss Bailey's mother to acquire this one." He gestured to the shop behind him, where Harold and Roger were slowly making their way toward them. "Am I missing anything?"

"That about covers it." Mamie's eyes were wilder than Meg had ever seen, but the gun never wavered. "And now it's time to finish this once and for all."

Then, without warning, the Tooey brothers let out a loud war cry and smacked Mamie smartly on the rear with their canes. She yelped and grabbed her bottom with her free hand. "Stop that!" she shouted, her face mottling impossibly red. "Get away from me!"

And then Harvard was there. His hair was wild and his bowtie was hanging around his neck like he'd been pulling at it. He said something into his cell phone and the lights came blaring on, making everyone squint. He took one look at Harold and Roger as they managed to evade Mamie's attempts to stop them from whacking her and smiled slightly. The smile disappeared when he spotted the gun, and his eyes flickered to Meg. His face was pale and scared, but when he called to her his voice was steady.

"Throw me your shoe." Without a second thought she tossed it over Mamie's head. He caught it in one hand, narrowed his eyes, and threw it right at the hand holding the gun.

The gun was pointing straight up when the slipper connected with it, and Mamie squeezed her fingers in surprise at being hit by an unexpected assailant. When the gun went off it shot the sign over The Glass Slipper, and Meg watched as the board that no one could dislodge came crashing down on Mamie's head, sending up a cloud of dust so fine it twinkled in the bright light.

When the dust cleared, Mamie was on the ground, knocked out cold. Johnny kicked the gun away and looked at Harvard with an appreciative eye. "You have a good arm, son."

"Little League," was all Harvard had time to say in response before he was at Meg's side. "Are you okay?" His hands ghosted down her arms and over her back.

Without warning Harvard leaned over and picked her up, earning a sarcastic snort from Charley. He carried her a way down the hall before setting her on a bench. "I thought I was going to have a heart attack when I saw Mamie with that gun," he said, his voice shaking slightly, and he buried his face on her shoulder.

Meg's legs were beginning to feel like they weren't made of rubber anymore, and she slid her fingers through his hair to sooth him. "You and me both. Thanks for coming to the rescue. But that was a really stupid thing to do," she added, tugging on his hair a little. "What would you have done if that thing had been aimed at someone when she pulled the trigger?"

"It wasn't."

"But – "

He placed a finger on her lips and sighed. "It was stupid, I know. But I couldn't just stand there and watch someone try to kill you." He stopped talking to swallow. "I – "

"What?"

"This is not the right time to be saying things like this," he muttered under his breath.

"Just spit it out, Harvard. I'm tired, my shop's a mess, and your mom wants me to – "

"I love you."

Meg's mouth dropped into a small 'o' and she blinked at him.

"I love you, Meg Bailey, and I'm sticking around for a long time so you might as well get used to the idea. As for my mother's suggestion . . . I wouldn't be opposed to that when the time's right."

When asked later on why she'd burst into tears Meg would say it was because it had been a very, very long night, and Harvard's proclamation was almost too much to bear. But when his arms were around her and she was folded into his embrace, she whispered brokenly into his ear,

"I love you, too."

Three minutes later Meg was still kissing Harvard when she heard the roar of Charley's voice. It probably carried all the way to the food court.

"You hit my car? With a _minivan_?"


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

It took several weeks for the excited chatter to die down in the mall. Fortunately for Meg, she was too busy mopping up the mess Mamie had left behind to notice.

Damage from the ball itself was the easiest to clean up, Meg thought as she packed another box full of shoes that the Steppes had ordered. Her keys and cell phone had somehow made their way into the backseat of Mamie's car, although Mamie claimed to have no knowledge of how that had happened. Thanks to Harvard and his mighty skills of hiring a cleaning crew, her apartment had quickly been restored to its previous glory. Someone even found the slipper Mamie had wrenched from her foot in the atrium and returned it with much reverence.

And Arthur came home.

He returned the afternoon after the ball, so worried that he walked through the store he'd sold a year and a half before without even a twitch. After he reassured himself that his only child was, in fact, perfectly fine, she reminded him of this. He paused for a moment, deep in thought, before simply folding her in his arms and telling her that he was sorry for everything that had happened. And that he was home to stay.

Provided, of course, that Harvard didn't mind a roommate for a while.

Meg smiled to herself as she tried to close the lid. She'd come to learn that people deal with grief in very personal ways, and could admit now that Arthur had needed to get away for a while. It was good to have him back, though.

She glanced up from her seat on the floor and watched as her father walked into the shop. "How was your lunch with Mr. Grimm?"

Arthur tossed a folder on an empty table and looked around. "We talked more about Charley's upcoming wedding than anything else," he noted absently.

"Can you blame him? I'm sure that's all he hears about at home now that Charley's set up Wedding Central in his living room."

Arthur grunted. "You'd think he'd want a change of subject." He paced around the room, inspecting the walls and ceiling like he was taking internal notes. "Not to be rude, Meg, but this place looks awful. I hope the new owner takes better care of it."

Meg knew she shouldn't take such pleasure at Mamie's downfall, but the fact that the woman had to sell the shop to pay for her lawyer's fees made her inordinately happy. "That shouldn't be too hard."

"What are you going to do with all those shoes?" Arthur eyed the stack of boxes sitting in the corner of the shop.

"If the new people don't want them any more I'm giving them to the women's shelter."

"That's very thoughtful of you. Oh, good. Here's Harvard."

Meg sat back on her heels and watched as Harvard slowly made his way through the hallway. A small group of people congratulated him on his move to Michigan, and he laughed and nodded before yelling something into Charley's shop. A few seconds later he was at her side, pulling her to her feet.

"Hey," he said, grinning. "Having a good day?"

Meg glanced around the shop. All of the mirrors Brittany had made her install had been taken down, and the strains of a crooning Harry Connick Jr. weaved through the air. If you ignored the boxes, she thought, and the neon walls, no one would ever know Mamie had set foot in this place. "Great," she told him, and leaned up to kiss him on the chin. "Absolutely wonderful."

Harvard was about to kiss her properly when Arthur cleared his throat. "I like you, Mr. Kingston, but I'd like you a little farther from my daughter."

The living arrangements in the downstairs apartment were friendly, Meg thought, but her father evidently had his limits. Which was why Harvard spent most of his free time upstairs with Meg.

"Come on, Mr. Bailey," Charley's amused voice chided from the doorway. "Give the guy a break. It's not like another girl as fine as Meg will ever give him the time of day again."

Harvard ignored him. "Is that it, sir?" He nodded toward the folder.

"It is. Meg, I have something for you." Arthur handed her a key, which Meg looked at quizzically.

"What's this?"

"The key to your store."

"I already have one."

Harvard glanced over at her father before grasping the hand that held the key. "You know that Mamie has to sell, right?" When Meg nodded dumbly he squeezed her fist. "Your dad bought it. For you."

"What?"

Arthur stood on her other side and kissed her on the forehead. "I used the money Mamie paid for it originally. The deed's in your name. You can do whatever you want with it."

Meg stared at him blankly for a long time. When Charley caught her eye he gestured to the wall behind her. "Let's take that out," he said briskly, "and go into business together."

Meg burst into tears and was immediately surrounded by six male arms. "Now, Meggie," Charley said from somewhere over her head. "There's no reason to cry. I know it might be a little awkward at first, working with a man who owns his own mall, but don't let it bother you. You can keep calling me Charley if you want. I won't insist on Master Grimm."

"How's your car coming along?" Meg asked as she walked into Charley's shop late the next evening. "I see you're still driving that rental."

Charley scowled and nearly poked a hole in his counter with a pair of scissors. "That guy's license should be revoked," he muttered.

"Already taken care of."

Charley glowered at her. "Then they should revoke it again. How hard is it to miss a car like Tang? It positively screams _don't touch_."

"It screams something, all right." Harvard walked in and rested against a fitting room door, pulling Meg back so she leaned on him. "It's trying to tell everyone, _I'm orange. Put me out of my misery_."

The look Charley shot him was withering. "Tang will be back on the road in a few days," he told Meg. "And when she is I'm going over to that assisted living center and giving that old guy a piece of my mind."

"I'll come with you. I haven't talked to Johnny or the Tooey brothers in a week or so."

"That's going to be quite the outing," Harvard said, his chin resting comfortably on her head. "Don't Harold and Roger live on opposite sides of the city?"

"Not anymore. They had such a good time whacking Mamie with their canes that Roger decided to move next door to Harold so they can savor their victory together." She made a face. "I'm not sure that I envy their neighbors."

Charley turned around casually to study a gown that was set aside for alteration. "Speaking of neighbors, have you given any more thought to my proposal?"

"Why would I be thinking of that? Haven 't you already started to plan the wedding?"

"Not that proposal, genius. I may have allowed you to be Whitney's maid of honor – "

"Allowed? I don't recall her giving you a choice."

"Even though I wanted you for my best man – "

"It helps to be a man to do that, Grimm, which is why you asked me." Harvard tightened his arms around Meg momentarily and grumbled, "Not that I care about that kind of stuff."

"Please try to concentrate on the matter at hand. Get away from Kingston, Meg. He's addling your brain." Charley rapped on the wall that separated his shop from Meg's. "I think we should tear down this wall and go into business together."

Meg pulled away from Harvard and walked slowly over to Charley's side. She'd been thinking about this very thing ever since he'd mentioned it the day before. "Tear down the wall, eh? Do you think the new mall manager would approve? I hear he's pretty hard to work with."

Charley smirked at her. "Something tells me that if anyone could convince him it'd be you. What d'you think? It'd be a match made in heaven."

Meg thought briefly about her mother and shook her head, smiling at Charley. Alice would have loved the idea just as much as she did. "We'd be a perfect pair."

Charley was grinning wildly. "That's a good name, don't you think? 'The Perfect Pair'."

"It is, partner."

The next second Charley was hugging her so tightly she could have sworn she felt her spine hit her ribcage. "I've been dreaming about this for a long time, you know," he said. "The two of us'll be unstoppable."

Meg caught Harvard's eye over Charley's shoulder and laughed. "You mean the four of us."

"Do we really have to include Tall, Dark and Handsome in this equation?"

"I'm afraid we do, Mr. Grimm. After all, he's contributed to this just as much as the rest of us."

"Fine," Charley grunted good-naturedly, and released Meg just as Harvard reached for her. "But only because he's grown on me."

"I wonder if I should close the shop until we're finished with the wall," Meg mused as she dusted for the third time that morning. "No one can see any shoes with all this sawdust."

Whitney looked up from her bridal magazine. "Will you stop that? No one but you thinks those shelves need to be dusted. And anyway, business has been better this past month than I've ever seen. I think people are excited for the change." She glanced over at the ever-expanding hole in the wall. "I still can't believe this is all happening."

"And I can't believe you and Charley are getting married in a month and a half. Are you sure you can pull it off by the middle of October?"

Whitney shrugged and then grinned. "Frankly, I don't care when we get married. It's Charley who insisted that we use the fall leaves as a backdrop. The only thing I'm worried about is rain."

Meg was about to agree when a shrill voice sounded over the hammering. "Isn't anyone going to welcome me back?"

Brittany stood at the entrance to the store, looking around critically. Her new fake tan made her hair look almost white. "This looks awful. Who authorized all of this?"

Meg and Whitney shared a smile. "I did," Meg told her, "since I own the shop now."

Brittany stared at her, hard. "Oh, that's right. Some lawyer guy told me something like that, but I forgot." She waved a hand dismissively, like the state of the store she and her mother had owned had never been a major concern to her. Which it probably hadn't.

"What're you doing back?" Whitney stood slowly from behind the counter and came toward her sister. "Last I heard you were in Las Vegas with your new husband. Of course, that was a couple months ago . . . "

The shrewd look on Brittany's face immediately morphed into something Meg could only describe as love-sick. "Oh, Clydie is amazing. He knows such fascinating things about everything. We've been back for simply ages. Clyde has a very important job, you know. I'm only here because I heard my little sister is getting married, and I want to help out."

Meg had a feeling that the 'helping out' was really an excuse to plan the wedding Brittany hadn't had. "Actually, I could really use your help," Whitney said smoothly. "Can I put you in charge of the spa day? I don't really want a bridal shower so Meg and I were going to hang out and relax the day before the wedding."

"_Spa day_?" Meg mouthed in Whitney's direction. Whitney just smiled serenely and focused on her sister.

"Oh, I love going to the spa." Brittany got a strange glow in her eyes. "I might have to try out a few so I know what to recommend." She beamed at Whitney and then strutted out the door, her cell phone at her ear before she'd crossed the threshold. "Clyde, honey? Speak to me."

"What was that about?" Meg threw her duster to the side and placed her hands on her hips. "Since when are we doing a spa day? You hate pedicures."

Whitney shrugged and went back to her magazine. "It seems like a very small price to pay to keep Brittany out of my hair for the next month or so. And she'll have a blast, so don't look at me like that. Hey, Mr. Grimm. What's up?"

Charley's father laid a large hand on Meg's shoulder. "Official business, I'm afraid." His eyes twinkled as he looked at Meg. "You're lovely this morning, my dear, as usual. I'm glad to see my son hasn't beaten you to death with one of his wedding magazines."

Meg laughed and hugged Jacob Grimm. "He's tried. What's up? Did the sale not go through?"

"Oh, it went through, all right. Several weeks ago. I was wondering, Miss Bailey, if you could sell me a pair of shoes for a wedding." He laughed as Meg scrunched her face at him. "Black tie, of course."

A bellow echoed from the other side of the wall and Whitney slipped from her perch on the stool. "Excuse me," she said, and rolled her eyes as she ducked through the hole.

"How're things going with the shop?" Jacob watched as Meg filled out an order form. "Keeping busy?"

She nodded absently as she wrote. "Yeah, much better. The men's line has really taken off." She chewed on the end of her pan as she studied his feet. "Those last few months with Mamie were kind of bad, money-wise. I still don't know how we got so desperate."

"Did Mamie ever talk to you about the shop's finances?"

"No, and the one time I brought it up she acted strange and told me I wasn't supposed to think about stuff like that. Secretly, I think she was using the money to seduce all those poor old men."

Jacob Grimm let out a bark of laughter. "You're not far off the mark. She was starting to get antsy for another store, so she took money from the shop's accounts and bought a boatload of stuff like wigs and makeup." He paused, a distasteful expression on his face. "And Viagra, which I hope she never used."

The two of them shuddered. "I don't think she did," Meg said finally, praying that that mental image would somehow erase itself from her brain. "Unless there's another gentleman we don't know about."

"No, the Tooey brothers were her latest conquests. Thank goodness they were spared." They shuddered again, and Meg made a mental note to visit Harold and Roger that weekend.

"Thanks for letting me know," Meg told him as she finished her order. "I'll call you when your shoes come in."

"Thank you. And if you can get my son to stop obsessing about that car of his, I'll be grateful to you for life. Ever since it came back from the shop he's gone a little crazy."

"Yeah, he insists on parking it all the way at the other end of the parking lot and making me drive him the rest of the way."

Jacob patted her on the back. "Whitney's going to be a good influence on him. I hope."

Meg waved at his retreating back. Between wedding planning meetings and crazy car talk, she somehow felt like she was the one that was losing it.

On a cool, clear September afternoon Harvard and Charley stood across the street from the mall. Harvard watched as several rather burly men struggled to hang the new sign on the side of the mall. A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk near the workers, and they stared up raptly. Charley, however, seemed more interested in his car than in his name strung in lights for the whole town to see.

"I thought this was supposed to be a big deal for you," Harvard said with some asperity. "Weren't you the one that was all, 'My father really wants our family name on something important', or am I remembering that conversation incorrectly?"

Charley grunted from his position under the hood of his car. "Yeah, I might have been a little wrong about that." At Harvard's incredulous look Charley shrugged and polished something metal that Harvard couldn't identify. "I talked to my dad about that and it turns out he doesn't care what kind of shop I run as long as I'm gainfully employed and not wanting to move back home. Oh, and that I'm happy. He might have mentioned that part, too."

"So this whole thing here – " Harvard gestured at the scene in front of them – "is a waste of time?"

"Oh, never a waste of time." Charley straightened up and peered over the top of his orange car. "After all, the Grimm Brothers Mall has a nice ring to it. I quite like it, in fact."

Harvard shook his head in disgust. "I still don't see why we couldn't have just named it the Grimm Mall." Contemplating the building critically, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. "It looks like I'm running a fairy tale instead of an upscale shopping center."

"Upscale shopping center? You're sounding awfully hoity-toity. I think my new mall manager is letting his position go to his head." The hood of the car went down with a thunk and Charley wiped his hands on a towel he'd slung over his shoulder. "Next thing you know you'll think you can tell me what to do."

"Your mall, huh? I'll start forwarding the electric bill to your address then."

A gaggle of girls across the street stopped in their tracks and stared at the two men. They whispered to each other and then burst out into a fit of giggling. "Your admirers are out in force today," Charley said wryly.

"They could have been gawking at you."

"I'm taken, Kingston. In a few weeks I'll have the ring to prove it. You, on the other hand . . . "

Harvard was silent as the sign was fastened and the workers returned, with much applause, safely to the ground. "Well?" Charley prompted, nudging Harvard's foot. "Don't you have anything to say for yourself?"

"This was a lot easier with Meg's father," Harvard muttered to himself.

"What was that, Kingston? Have you gotten in touch with your inner Emily Post and asked Meg's father for permission to ask her to marry you?"

"I will neither confirm nor deny that statement. Do you remember our discussion outside the girls' house, back before we took them to The Whitney?"

"You mean about joining forces?"

"Yeah. Did you see yourself getting married to Whitney back then?"

Charley rubbed at a nonexistent spot on Tang's side panel. "No . . . but it didn't take long for me to realize that she made me happier than anything else ever has. Why? Did you see yourself marrying Meg?"

"I did the day I made her dinner."

Charley looked at him shrewdly. "That long, huh?"

"Yep. That long. I'm going to ask her to marry me at your reception. Do you approve?"

The spot on Tang suddenly seemed very, very interesting to Charley. "Are you asking for my blessing?"

"No. I'm asking Meg's best friend in the world if he approves of her future husband. There's a big difference, Grimm."

"Not from where I stand." Charley finally looked up and met Harvard's gaze. "Have you spoken to Arthur?"

"Yes. He was remarkably calm about the whole affair. Then again, he was probably expecting it."

The two men slowly made their way back to the mall. "Well?" Harvard said when they were halfway across the street. "Aren't you going to say anything else?"

Charley's grin was wicked. "No, I don't think so. It's too much fun seeing you sweat."

Harvard muttered something rude under his breath.

"Oh, calm down, Lover Boy. If you can promise me you'll make Meg happy for the rest of her life you can have my approval."

"I will."

"Then we can consider this conversation closed." Charley paused at the door to his shop. "Oh, Kingston?"

"Yeah?"

"Be sure to wait to pop the question until after Whitney throws her bouquet at Meg." He smirked. "It'll help me feel like a harbinger of fate."

Charley turned around and opened his door to be greeted with cheers. "Remember," he told Harvard over his shoulder. "After the flowers."

Then he went inside to the party Meg had planned to celebrate his new and, evidently, unnecessary namesake.

"Has anyone even heard of Eaton Ridge, Michigan?"

Harvard was in a mood. Meg reached over and covered the fist he'd made on the gearshift, squeezing lightly. "Why are you so upset?" she asked. "The English Inn is a lovely place to get married. Better yet, there's not a cloud in the sky so we don't have to worry about getting drenched."

He grumbled something about flowers and Meg tilted her head. "Did you whack your head on the doorframe again?"

"No. My head's just fine."

The bouncing of his knee made Meg frown. "The only thing you really have to do today, as far as best man duties go, is make sure you don't lose the ring. It's not like Charley's going to need a pep talk to get to the altar."

If anything, this comment made Harvard go even paler than he already was. When they pulled into the parking lot of the bed and breakfast Meg tugged his head down for a kiss. "Everything will be fine," she assured him. "Trust me."

Harvard swallowed once, hard, and then his shoulders relaxed slightly. "You're right. I love you."

"And I love you. Now get inside and make sure Charley isn't terrorizing the staff."

Meg watched him enter the inn and frowned again. She hadn't pegged Harvard as a man who was intimidated by a wedding.

She didn't have a spare second over the next few hours to worry about him, though. When she and Whitney were finally left alone they both breathed a sigh of relief. "You look beautiful," Meg told her. "I'm glad we managed to order your dress without Charley's help. Even if he did threaten to wait for the deliveryman all night so he could get a look at it."

Whitney flushed prettily and looked at herself in the mirror. "I feel like a princess."

Meg stood behind her and rearranged her veil. "Today you are one. You know I view Charley as a brother, don't you?"

"Yes," Whitney said slowly.

"That means that in less than half an hour you'll be my sister. Oh! You'll crush your dress!" She laughed as Whitney threw her arms around her and hugged tight.

"I don't care about the dress." Whitney leaned back and blinked rapidly. "I love Brittany because she's my sister, but you're much easier to deal with. Thanks again for being such a good sport yesterday. I know the spa scene isn't really your thing."

Meg wiggled her pink toenails. "It wasn't as bad as I thought. Come on, sis. It's time."

The second Meg walked into the late afternoon sunshine her eyes locked with Harvard's. He was standing next to Charley, the sun glinting off his dark hair and the vivid autumn colors a backdrop to his black tuxedo. He watched as she made her way slowly to the pergola, his gaze intense. In the back of her mind, the part that was still functioning enough to make her place one foot in front of the other, Meg noticed that he looked even better than he had at the ball.

Harvard's gaze stayed on her throughout the ceremony, even when he handed Charley the rings. Charley glanced at Harvard, then at Meg, and smiled a secretive smile that Meg was too distracted to notice. In fact, her brain remained fuzzy until she and Harvard were arm-in-arm, following their newly-married friends down the aisle toward the reception hall.

"You look positively enchanting, Miss Bailey," Harvard said in a low voice, and Meg let herself lean into him for a second.

"And you, Mr. Kingston, could pass for a very believable Prince Charming."

Harvard's sudden grin made her do the same. "That's one that Charley never got. 'Tall, Dark, and Charming.' I should probably mention that in my speech."

"No, don't." Meg tugged on his arm so he'd stop walking, and there, in front of all the wedding guests, kissed him. "I think I'll keep that one for myself."

Harvard had a foolish smile on his face all through the reception.

Meg kicked off her shoes and sank into a chair. The party had been lively, thanks to Charley's exuberant state. "Congratulations on catching the bouquet," Whitney said, leaning over her friend. "I thought Brittany was going to fight you for it."

"I don't know why she was even trying." Meg frowned. "Does she want to get married again?"

Shrugging, Whitney picked up the flowers Meg had carried for the ceremony. "I like yours better," she said. "They're not as heavy. Oh, Harvard's looking for you. I think he's outside, down by the pergola. You should go find him."

"Okay," Meg said slowly. "Are you trying to get rid of me?"

"Would I do that?"

Meg looked at her friend and smiled. She was flushed from dancing, her eyes were sparkling, and she looked happier than Meg had ever seen her. She leaned over and kissed Whitney on the cheek. "Take good care of my boy," she whispered. "And make sure he does the same for you."

Whitney hugged her tight. "Go find Harvard," she said, and handed the bouquet to her friend.

The grass was cool under Meg's bare feet as she wandered down the path toward the river. In the distance she could see Harvard, leaning against a pillar and watching the moon rise. He didn't say anything as she stepped up beside him.

"Hey," she said quietly. "You look awfully serious. Are you all right?"

He nodded before pushing himself upright. He grasped her hand in his. "This is a very beautiful place to get married," he said, just loud enough for Meg to hear him over the rush of the river. "It seems idyllic, like if you wished on a star your dreams would come true."

"It does." Meg leaned her head against his shoulder. "What would you wish for, if you were to make one?"

Harvard let out a long, slow breath, and pulled his hand from Meg's. He put it in his pocket before looking into her upturned face. "I'd wish that you'd agree to marry me."

Meg blinked at him a few times and dropped her flowers. "Really?"

"Really."

She blinked a few more times to make sure she hadn't drifted off into an alternate universe by mistake. "Are you asking . . . "

The next thing she knew he was down on one knee, a ring between his fingers. "Meg Bailey, will you marry me?"

Too emotional to speak, she nodded and bent over, kissing him. "Is that a yes?" he asked against her lips. "I'd kind of like to hear you say it to avoid confusion."

Laughing shakily, Meg pulled far enough back to look him in the eye. "Yes. Yes, I'll marry you, Harvard Dartmouth Kingston."

The kiss Harvard planted on her was long and full of promise. "That's convenient," he gasped when he finally pulled away, "as we both need new roommates."

And that was how she found herself standing in front of The Perfect Pair with both Charley and her father two months later wearing the most beautiful wedding gown she had ever seen.

As well as The Slippers.

The mall was decorated to the hilt, tiny fairy lights twinkling from every available space, thanks to Jillian's insistence that she be allowed to take care of all the 'mall business', as she'd put it. "Thanks for letting us walk you down the aisle, Meggie," Charley whispered as they waited for their cue. "Even if it's a little unorthodox to have two fathers-of-the-bride, it feels just . . . perfect."

Meg looked around her and smiled. The new sign hanging over The Perfect Pair swung gently, as though a breeze had made its way through the mall, and she raised a hand to welcome it.

The slippers her mother, and her mother before that, had bequeathed to her flexed with every step she took. She smiled to herself, and almost looked inside the store for Alice.

Instead, she looked forward to meet Harvard's steady gaze, and her smile grew. "Perfect," she said, echoing Charley. "Absolutely perfect."

THE END

_Author's note: __Thanks for reading. I look forward to any last thoughts you may have._


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